


In a Great Garden

by MissouriMule



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, bratty children, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:39:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissouriMule/pseuds/MissouriMule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which two boys sit on fences and trade memories, scars and kisses... if they can stop pulling eachother's pigtails for two seconds that is.</p><p>(on hiatus due to lack of motivation and other projects)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Earth is a planet bursting at the seams with life.

 

It was crawling in every nook and crease, clinging to every particle of dust in the air. It hummed and pulsed all around; there was no escape from it, any refuge or peace mere fantasy in its wake. And it seemed determined to envelope, embrace, and strangle any who dared step into its domain.

This was what was different and strange, this is what was alien. All this life and living, every atom of this planet so thick with it that you might think nothing could survive here. That anything that tried should be smothered by all that moved and breathed alongside, and there should be nothing left standing for all this overcrowding.

Or at least it seemed that way to young Spock as he stepped out of the climate controlled interior of the hovercar and into that Washington summer twilight. A child of a desert world dropped into a garden.

Flora and fauna were not sparse in the wilds of Vulcan, all you had to do was sit and listen, watch, wait. You’d see life in all its forms ebb and flow around you if you took a moment to notice. Creatures would scurry in and out among the rocks, a shadow would fall on the dusty ground as its caster soared high above riding the thermals, restless insects would dart across the sand to chase pockets of shade. But there was space there, room for things to live on Vulcan; Earth in stark contrast was overpopulated to an extreme.

Crickets that sung near and far, the song of one species blending into another and another till the trill of an individual became indistinguishable from other with the frogs and fading, sleepy, calls of songbirds only adding to the audio chaos. In the light of the lamps that lit the drive buzzed at least twenty different species of flying insect, fluttering in a panic about the light source as they were caught in its trance.

Spock repressed a shudder for it felt as his skin was teaming with them, the moths, and frogs, and birds all pressed uncomfortably close and squirming under his clothes.

The humidity in the air was not helping the matter in the slightest, every breath he took had to be dragged in, weighted down in the pit of his lungs, even though the atmosphere was so much richer with oxygen than what he’d known. He took account of the moisture clinging to the hairs on back of his neck and thought this is what sweating must feel like, it was extremely unpleasant and he couldn't imagine his mother ever bearing it.

The deep seated urge to duck back into the hovercar and hide was strong and resonating; there was nothing in the universe he would have liked more. There was nothing in the universe he had ever wanted more in the breath of that second. His was an irrational, illogical, emotional response to an unfamiliar and alien environment. Lessons in control were remembered, revisited, plastered against the walls of his mind and barriers against such lapses in control were swiftly erected.

This was Spock’s very first visit to Earth, his very first to his mother’s home world, and he was to spend six months here on Earth while his father worked at the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco.

He and his mother had parted ways with Father at the shuttle port; Father had immediate business to attend to upon arrival and, being that Mother’s family was eager to reunite with their long separated daughter, they had agreed that Spock would journey with her to meet them. Father had no time to care for Spock while he worked and Mother had held a long standing want for Spock to meet her family, it was only logical Spock had followed her to Washington to visit.

The trip had been arranged long before they has even left Vulcan soil, decidedly mother’s reunion and Spock’s first face to face meeting of his mother’s side of the family would occur here, in a “suburb” outside of Olympia at the house of his maternal grandmother. Father was to rejoin them as soon as he was able, if only for a few days before he took them both back to San Francisco with him.

Mother had only planned to stay for a week or so before following Father back and Spock found himself, only having arrived 1.43 Earth minutes ago, already wanting for the concrete and steel of the city even at the risk the noise of Human activity would be worse than the wildlife. In San Francisco he could at least hide behind the high walls of the Vulcan Embassy in the presence of those whose mannerisms were familiar if not welcoming. The idea of meeting his mother’s family face to face was more than discomforting.

He was not a complete stranger to these people however, nor were they to him.

Spock had spoken with many members of his mother’s side of the family on numerous occasions over video communications; usually the calls coincided with Terran holidays and birthdates. He’d had spoken, at least once, with his maternal grandparents, great-uncle, his aunt and one of his cousins, though in that case quite briefly, his cousin being three at the time and having little patience or interest for Spock.

However in all the ten Earth years he’d been alive he’d never met a single member of his mother’s family in person. He did not know them past vid screens, past shallow letters, past immaterial gifts, voices tapered by polite distance and distorted by light-years of space.

So as he stood in the driveway of his grandmother’s home—a two story piece of 21st century German Colonial architecture—fingering the sleeve of long grey tunic he wore, he felt completely out of place and unnerved. Though he would not dare admit or even acknowledge it.

“Spock.” His mother called to him, extending her hand out in a gesture to follow as she stood between the two flowering bushes that flanked the walk to Grandmother Sabrina’s front door. There is a soft smile on her features; Spock noted that he had never seen his mother so openly smile more in the past few hours than he could bring himself to remember **.**

He turns to her and fallows, and when he falls to her side an arm comes around him to push him along towards the porch, never quite touching but holding close before falling away. A fleeting ghost of a touch that had become more and more common as he grew, as he shied away from the material ones. Spock heard the driver shuffle a respectful distance behind them, carrying their luggage. A thin man who’d taken his turns to sharply for Spock’s liking, Earth’s roads were precariously hilly and curved, fitted to the landscape when it would have been much more practical to go over or under. The drive directly off of Seattle’s main shuttle station had been particularly harrowing as the driver was unnecessarily aggressive in his lane changing, weaving in and out of traffic like a trel’masu lizard.

As he and his mother ascend the porch steps the front door is thrown open with a gasp and a shriek, making Spock’s shoulders seize up in response.

“Oh my lord, Amanda!” Nearly shouts the grey haired woman who steps out with her arms wide spread and takes Spock’s mother into a tight embrace which she returns with vigor, laughter bubbling up from the both of them.

The woman, who Spock knows to be his grandmother, has soft, rounded, features but they still remind him of his mother somehow. Her hair is wavy and twisted into a frayed bun, like she’d been picking and fussing with every strand till it was about to come undone.

Spock is momentarily stunned by this unashamed display of emotion and affection he bears witness to, the uneasiness he felt bubbling the moment they has arrived on Earth threatening to boil over.

“Oh Mom…” Mother says. “It’s so good to see you.” Her voice soft and wrought with an emotion Spock has never heard from her, it puts tightness in the back of his throat that is verging on painful.

Grandmother Sabrina presses a hard kiss into Amanda’s cheek, still holding her tight as if she were about to fly away, her eyes glossy and wet as if she were about to cry. Spock can’t fathom why this is so, his understanding being that Humans cried when they were sad or in pain, his understanding being that this is a joyous occasion and did not warrant tears. The few instances he recalled memories of crying himself were as a small child and all those outbursts had been marked by some kind of pain.

‘ _Perhaps Mother is hugging Grandmother Sabrina too tight?_ ’ He thinks, but he doesn't find that answer satisfactory. He may endeavor to ask Mother about it when they were alone.

They separate, still touching but giving each other room. Grandmother Sabrina seeming to take a long hard look at her daughter, she doesn't say anything but her resolve almost wavers, Spock thinks for a moment she will truly burst into tears. But that doesn't happen and smiling, the pale lipstick she wears smudged a tad, having left a mark on Mother’s cheek, she steps completely back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and turning to Spock.

She does not move to embrace him as she had done his mother, a fact for which Spock is grateful to her.

“Oh now look at this one!” Her voice is shrill with delight.

“Hello Grandmother.” Spock nods to her, straightening himself and offering the ta’al. “It is gratifying to finally meet you in person.”

She laughs, and returns the salute, albeit shakily and not before looking down at her hand to make sure the placement of her fingers was correct.

“It is very “gratifying” to finally meet you as well Spock.” Her eyes rove over him, taking in every measure of her grandson. She is still smiling at him even, but there is uncertainty in her expression.

“You look just like your mother…” Her voice is incredibly soft. Did he look like his mother? She had never mentioned this before over the video comms, he himself never thought his facial structure favored either parent though he admitted more similarities to his father, if only for his Vulcan features.

Before Spock could voice such a man appears in the doorway, appearing a little older than his grandmother and sporting a short, patchy beard full of grey. His eyes were dark, dark as any Vulcan’s, but they glittered with mirth which was decidedly un-Vulcan. Spock recognized him as Great-Uncle Robert, his grandmother’s older brother.

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” He laughs, though Spock’s brows furrow lightly at his words.

 _Puma concolor_ would not be able to lift them both in its jaws, possibly _Panthera tigris_ or _Panthera pardus_ but neither were native to Washington and it would be extremely awkward for them.

“We were not dragged here by a cat, we came by way of hovercar from Seattle. It was to my knowledge that no member of _Felidae_ native to the Americas was large enough to drag an adult Human female, a Vulcan child and their luggage at the same time.” Spock states and the air falls still save for the cacophony of wildlife.

They all stare at him for a moment, his mother included, an expression Spock knew as shock on their faces, and Spock fells stunned as well that this was apparently new knowledge to them. Mother’s expression morphs though, if only a little, so something can’t quite place as she looks at him. Before he can put a name on the look in his mother’s eyes, the sheer force of the laughter that is directed him from his great uncle nearly knocks him off his feet.

Great-Uncle Robert’s cackles coming from deep in his gut, doubling over with an arm thrown tightly across his torso and the other braced against the door frame. Laughter, Human laughter especially, was unnerving.

“Oh ruddy hell the little runt is a riot!” He manages to gasp out from his seemingly painful bouts of laughter. Spock feels a little indignant at the descriptor of “runt”; he was a little slight for his age but certainly not a runt nor was he a “riot” by any definition. Granted all communications beforehand had hinted at the notion his great-uncle was highly illogical and prone to finding humor in situations where there was none so he could not be that surprised at his behavior.

“Oh Rob, quit it.” Grandmother Sabrina swats at him, cuffing him lightly about the ear. His laughter subsided a bit at the reprimand, but he continued to snicker. An ornery smirk plastered on his face as he turns to Mother.

“Ah, c’mere Amanda.” He stretched out his arms. “It’s been too long since I hugged my favorite niece.”

Mother yielded to his gesture with a smile and he wrapped around her, rocking side to side as he did, even grunting as he squeezed her tightly before parting. A soft mutter of “ _Don’t tell your sister I said that_ ” came out from under his breath, had Spock’s hearing not been as keen as it was he would have never heard it, but his mother’s soft giggle at the comment was audible to all present.

Great-Uncle Robert then turned to Spock with a toothy grin. Spoke noted the gap between his front teeth and wondered why he’d never had it corrected.

“Good to finally meet ya’ Spock.” He held out his hand to Spock.

Spock quickly analyzed the gesture and formulated his refusal.

“Vulcans do not shake hands Great-Uncle Ro—“

“Right! Right!” He cut Spock off, jerking his hand up. “Thought I’d give it a go anyway.” His tone and posture loose and cheery, very well bouncing on his heels as he stood in the doorway.

“And nuff’ with the “Great-Uncle” stuff” His hands also join the conversation with swirling, wrist heavy, movements.

“Uncle, or Uncle Rob, or Rob, or anything else will suit me just fine. “Great-Uncle” makes me feel old as dirt.”

Spock could accommodate this.

“Yes Uncle Robert.”

“Rob ma’boy.” He gently corrected. “Rob.”

Before Spock could ask if at some point he had received false information on Uncle Rob’s name he and his mother were ushered inside. Both Grandmother Sabrina and Uncle Rob gesturing and chattering away excitedly, their enthusiasm being limitless as their guests paused to remove their shoes.

Uncle Rob had taken the bags from the driver, tipping the driver before sending him off. Being adamant in his refusal for all help, insisting that he was “old but not that damn old” and to “quit fussing over him”.

Grandmother Sabrina was not pleased by this, herself adamant in the belief he would “throw out” his back so she fussed loudly as Uncle Rob hurdled, or made an attempt to, up the stairs to the second story to deposit his burdens.

“He’s going to kill himself on of these days.” She clucked, the statement seeming having been directed at no one. Mother defended Uncle Rob halfheartedly.

“I just hope I’m that bouncy at his age.”

Spock could not imagine his mother “bouncy” now, let alone when she was nearing elderly status.

“He’s going “bounce” straight into a broken hip.” Grandmother Sabrina countered sharply, herding them away from the entryway to the kitchen.

They were brought to a table set off to the side against a great window in the kitchen, both he and his mother were told to sit down and not “lift a finger” as the table was set. The rectangular table was something a bit hard for Spock to look at directly. The surface being made of patterned mosaic patterns in vibrant green hues. Shiny and bright even under the warm overhead luminescence.

Spock turned to watch the last streaks of light fade from the heavens, the Altocumulus clouds that mostly overcast the sky achromatizing, losing their pink and peach notes, while his grandmother fussed over plate arrangements and swatted away her daughter’s offers for assistance quite viciously.

A glass of something cold, brown and smelling of citrus was placed in front of him, clicking gently on the tiled table, condensation running down the sides of the glass. Spock sipped it cautiously at his mother’s urging, finding it a bit too flavorful on his tongue and cold on his teeth. He was told the drink was iced tea with lemon juice in it. Uncle Rob, who’d returned downstairs in a thunder of foot falls, and Mother also professed a favor for it.

Pans and pots were placed on the table, filled with dishes that had come either straight off the stove or out of the oven, all vegetarian Spock noted as well.

Silverware and dishes clinked together along with the seemingly dull roar of the adult’s conversations, how three people alone could produce such noise was confounding. How his mother could be one of the sources its own spectacularly new category of mystery, his answers to questions and comments seeming like whispers by comparison.

Uncle Rob was the most enthusiastic in his speech, talking as much with his hands and eyebrows as he did with his mouth, eagerly listing off things he wished to do with Spock. Spock, a surprise to himself, was extremely intrigued by the possibilities his great-uncle presented to him. Uncle Rob worked for a shuttle craft manufacturer, programming their computer systems, his offers for tours of the faculties and, of course, lessons in operation were well received. Spock’s mother’s lips thinned a little at the mention of piloting lessons, Uncle Rob’s assurances to her that Spock wouldn’t be allowed to get a real shuttle off the ground were not given much credit.

“The new Mark-08TX prototypes just came of the line; I bet Spock would love to hop up in the pilot’s seat. I promise I’m not gonna let him take off into the wild blue yonder or anything, sit and fiddle with the controls a little.” He insisted.

“Fiddle with the controls a little?!” Mother’s voice raised a few octaves, her knuckles turning white around her fork.

“I’ll disconnect the thruster ignition!”

Apparently Uncle Rob “was not to be trusted as far as one could throw him”, according to Grandmother Sabrina. Spock assured his mother many times that he would not take a shuttle for a ‘joyride’ but she still looked uneasy about the entire proposal.

There were other things offered to him by Uncle Rob as well, things like zoos, ice cream parlors, toy stores, and amusement parks. While Spock had little interest in such things he did not outright refuse them, not wishing to offend his relatives. Uncle Rob insisted he was going to spoil Spock rotten, and Grandmother Sabrina concurred with promises of sweets and gifts.

“There is the neat little street fair going on this weekend. They’ll have all kinds of live performers out, fire-breathers and jugglers oh my.” Grandmother Sabrina chuckled, spearing a tomato with her fork.

“Oh! Do you think Simon’s Truck will be there? Best kettle corn you’ve ever had! I swear that on my life, Spock.” Spock had never had ‘kettle corn’ but he said he would sample some to appease his enthusiastic great-uncle.

Why they should wish to spoil him Spock had no inkling, but it seemed some strange Terran way of expressing affection on a child, Spock decided he would endeavor to tolerate this. He would have to endeavor to tolerate many things this coming week.

His activities for the week were not the only topic of discussion; Grandmother Sabrina spoke of a spa in town that she wished to take Mother to, speaking highly of select staff members. She also wanted to take Mother into Seattle and go shopping. More somberly made plans to visit Grandfather Thomas's grave were voiced, Mother wished to bring sun flowers to the grave site and Grandmother Sabrina smiled at that, happy that Mother had remembered her father’s favorite flower.

“It’s hard to believe he’s been gone almost eight years now.” Grandmother Sabrina murmured as she worried the golden wedding ring on her finger.

“Better place and all that lot.” Uncle Rob muttered, grunting as he was elbowed by his sister and spilling the forkful of food he’d been transporting to his mouth. “Ow, don’t do that! Wasting good lasagna I swear…”

Spock maternal grandfather had passed when Spock was only two by Earth standards and he had little memory of the man save some fuzzy images of a man with a beard in a view screen. Mother had been unable to attend the funeral, something she admitted regretting deeply, but she had not wanted to tote Spock all the way to Earth with her, his constitution thought to be so fragile at the time, nor did she wish to leave him alone on Vulcan.

Inquiries were also made about Spock’s schooling, his mother’s work, even his father’s wellbeing, and therefore work, consequentially through those questions by comparison were of muted vigor. Mother also inquired about her sister.

“Is Doris still working for that hospital in Anchorage? I would have thought she’d have moved to Wales by now like she always talked about.” Mother inquired.

“It’s that hubby of her’s. Bitches constantly about how rainy it would be.” Uncle Rob mutters through a mouthful of food.

“Robert! Don’t curse around Spock!” Grandmother Sabrina scolds, swatting him mercilessly with her napkin. She seems to have an affinity for hitting her brother; Mother barely takes notice of it other than a slightly raised brow.

Aunt Doris, her husband and children were due to arrive tomorrow morning, having been unable to get away due to work obligations until then. Mother seemed to be excited by the idea that Spock would have his two cousins to interact with, Lester and Jonathan, also known as “Jimmy”.

There was also talk if Uncle Rob’s son was to make an appearance or not, he having made no concrete promises about joining the reunion. Uncle Rob had visibly tensed at the mention of his offspring, his speech uncharacteristically short when it came to the subject of Ryoichi.

“I do hope he shows. It would be good to see him again.” Grandmother Sabrina said.

“The brat won’t bother.” Uncle Rob grunted, stabbing a piece of eggplant with a little more force than necessary. “Little bast—… twit, doesn’t like us much anymore.”

The topic was quickly, and soundly, dropped.

As to the contents of the meal itself, Spock discovered that his grandmother was apparently a terrible cook and the meal had mostly been Uncle Rob’s doing, much to Spock’s surprise. He encouraged Spock to try everything, insinuating that he’d be personally offended if Spock didn’t, Spock found that those threats were dipping into territory Human’s knew as “affectionate teasing”. His mother had warned him about his great-uncle’s fondness for such things.

Spock’s mother, however, had also encouraged him to sample; hopeful that he would branch out from the limited Terran cuisine she’d introduced him to. Mother was not much of a cook herself but hints of her heritage had always crept their way onto the dinner table.

“Here, take a bite of this first THEN eat the tomato together with it.” Uncle Rob insists. “Better right?”

Spock nods; his mouth full and his great-uncle very impatient for confirmation.

“If you like that we’ll have to get some of those sweet potatoes Mary got from her cousin. Nuthin’ better than mashed sweet potatoes with tomato on top.” Uncle Rob nods to his own suggestion; Mother makes a face in turn.

Spock found pure Terran food was, as he expected, rich and over spiced, but he could not find much fault with his Uncle’s “lasagna” and accepted the second helping without much coercing.

By the end of the night when plates had been cleared and they had migrated to the living room with mugs of tea (Uncle Rob’s “tea” appeared to be coffee laced with an alcoholic substance.) Spock felt as if he’d run the length of Shi’Kahr and back, conversation between Humans was more exhausting than he had anticipated. The fact his stomach was comfortably full and the plush couch corner he’d sunk into being no help in the matter. He chided himself mentally for eating more than necessary; the chaos surrounding him must have dropped his guard.

More over his wished for peace and quiet. Ever since he’d stepped off the transport vessel from Vulcan he’d been assaulted by everything Human. Loud, vibrant, and of course, overwhelming. His shields were in tatters even though his relatives had been respectful enough to avoid touching him, the mere force of their presence was enough to render his mind sluggish and cloudy.

“Mother.” He murmured quietly, leaning towards her. “I wish to be excused so I might mediate and retire for the night.” His eyelids felt heavy, everything felt heavy.

She nods to him and turns to Grandmother Sabrina and Uncle Rob, who are animatedly discussing the temperament of Aunt Doris’s husband. They did not appear to like him much, sighting him lazy and gruff.

“I think it’s time for Spock to go to bed.” She says and they look faintly surprised, both necks snapping to glance the antique analogue clock sitting atop the fireplace.

“It is a bit late then isn’t it?” Grandmother Sabrina comments.

“Little runt looks like he’s going to tip over on us.” Uncle Rob laughs and Spock finds he cannot muster up the energy to correct him for the seventh time on his use of the term “runt”. He is quite insistent about calling him that though, Spock can sense no ill intentions in the usage even if it is a negative term. He classifies it as another form of “affectionate teasing”.

“I’ve made up the attic room for him.” Grandmother Sabrina says, shooting a glare at Uncle Rob for the seventh time. “Is that okay with you Spock?”

“I am sure any preparations you have made will be satisfactory Grandmother Sabrina.” Spock sits his half empty mug down on the coffee table and rises. She gives a soft smile to him in answer and the rises as well.

“I’ll show you there then.” She says before Spock’s mother can rise, waving her off.

Goodnights are exchanged; Uncle Rob’s more colorful than most, having something to do with “bed bugs”.

‘ _Surely there will be no insects infesting my bed so I will have not to fend off their bites_?’ Spock thinks as he is led up the stairs.

He cannot possibly believe that his Grandmother’s home would be so unsanitary and when he asks her about it as they climb the first set of stairs Grandmother Sabrina confirms it is just a common idiom and that he shouldn't take his great-uncle too seriously.

“Because he’s not a serious man in the slightest.” She had said.

Spock finds Human speech too confounding for his liking, his brow noticeably furrowing, he has had enough of his great-uncle’s particular brand of “affection” for the night.

They stop in the middle of the hallway.

“Attic, open.” Grandmother Sabrina calls out.

There is an audible click as an unseen computer resisters the command, and then ceiling above opens to reveal a ladder. At first Spock thinks it will drop down with a clatter and he takes a brisk step back when the first section descends rapidly, it instead jerks when it the second portion should slide down and slows to a steady crawl, dragged back by the force of magnets. Settling with a soft thump on the carpet, the hole at the top glowing with warm, amber light.

Grandmother Sabrina makes a gesture indicating he should go first so Spock ascends the ladder, she follows him. The room he ascends to is long and narrow, the roof sloping the ceiling towards the floor on each side. It is painted a pale green, faded like moss, the floors a smooth golden wood, heavily characterized by knots.

The room separated by a wall to the right, the door attached leads to storage, but otherwise is open and contains a bed and a small table with a lamp on it, a dresser, a desk and chair along with a few other pieces of miscellaneous and haphazard furniture.

A rug that appears to be woven from discarded pieces of cloth, notably intricate for something made from rags, a cedar chest at the foot of the bed with a cushioned top that depicts cedar trees, canvases of oil painted still life without any frames decorate the tilted walls, a vase made from carnival glass brims with flowers from where it sits on the desk, they are _Leucanthemum vulgare_.

All pieces well-made or of some value but not really suited anywhere else in the home. At best rustic, at worst chaotic, however, it’s perfectly livable.

There are two windows on each side of the room, covered with lace curtains that let the faint light of the half-moon drift in as it peaks out from behind the cloud cover. Spock’s bag is already up here as well, and he wonders for a moment how Uncle Rob knew which was his before he remembers his name is on the I.D tag.

“I thought you would like your own room away from your cousins.” Grandmother Sabrina says, climbing up behind him.

Spock does appreciate her forethought into this matter; he cannot imagine trying to mediate with the two young Humans in the same room, if rumors of their rambunctiousness are to be believed. Jimmy apparently had a habit of sticking things up is nostrils, such as erasers and peas, and snorting them out at people.

”I hope you don’t mind staying all the way up here.” Grandmother Sabrina seems nervous, her daughter is not here to act as a buffer and translate for Spock.

“I do not mind. The room is adequate.” Spock says, but he doesn’t think is appeased her. She still looks a little guilty, Spock cannot fathom why that is, but there is an added softness there. It’s a look that reminds him of his mother, maternal and caring.

“The bathroom is back down the ladder, second door on the right. Your mother will be first door on the right and I’m at the end of the hallway if you need anything. I’ll be leaving the ladder down but the manual control is over on the wall if you want it up.” She pauses. “Rob’s taking the fold out in the basement if you want him.”

Spock nods in acknowledgement; his grandmother lingers for a moment, awkward and waiting for something before continuing,

“There are also extra blankets in the chest if you need them.”

Spock nods again. “Thank you Grandmother.” He adds as an afterthought, not knowing what will please her but she seems to respond a little better with verbal confirmation. Smiling and nodding in turn before she makes her way back to the ladder.

“Sleep well.” She murmurs as she retreats down, closing the extra the trap door to give him some privacy from the hall, and leaves Spock to prepare for bed.

He walks over to where his bag has been deposited, on top of the cedar chest, and opens one of the side pockets to pull the bag that contains his toothbrush and other hygiene products then opens the main pocket and pulls out his sleep wear, a traditional nightshirt made of a thick red fabric that was purchased especially for this trip, setting it down on the bed.

He stops for a moment to skim his fingers along the quilt. It’s something handmade, made of rich deep reds peppered with vivid blue, one section of cloth not like any of its neighbors.  Chaotic and ill-planned at first glance, till you notice the complex winding labyrinth like design stitched in.

Spock ponders who made it, a relative of his perhaps? Is this an heirloom? When he thinks back he does not remember Mother ever mentioning a relative that could sew.

It has definitely been done by hand, the stitches are remarkably even but are noticeably varied in places to his keen eyes, whomever had made it was very skilled to have made the illusion of mechanized work. He runs his fingertips around the stitching a moment more, tracing the sharp dips and smooth curves, before picking up his bag and making for the bathroom.

When he returns, his teeth brushed and hair combed, he strips down and folds his day clothes, leaving them by his bag. He wriggles into the night shirt that drapes slightly past his knees, noting how much thicker and heavier it is than the one he wears at home, then turns of the lamp and opens his bag again. He pulls out his mediation mat and an incense burner, rolling out the mat on the rough wooden floors and placing the burner before it.

Spock pulls out a lighter and a stick of incense next, placing the incense in the holder and lighting it. He puts the lighter back in the bag before he blows out the open flame, the stick now burning with a muted ember as its scent floods the room.

The warm, smoky, soft and earthy scent that envelopes and relaxes the tension in his neck. The smell of Vulcan, the smell of her wind, her sand, and her sky now drifting about him in an embrace. Spock adopts the loshiraq position as he settles onto the mat, his hands clasped loosely in his lap as he begins to regulate his breathing.

Slowly the surface of his mind stills, focuses, calms so that he sink inward. His surroundings become meaningless to him; the when, where and why become nothing and the buzzing of thoughts in his head come to a sputtering halt.

He is as still as an underground lake, humming under the surface with turbulent currents. Spock sought those more than anything, those twisting, writhing, trembling tendrils of thought that threatened to drag him under. He sought them to understand them, to control them.

He examined each in turn, cataloging every discomfort and bit of displeasure, all the unease he felt being on his Mother’s home world.

How his grandmother and great uncle’s care unnerved him, how openly informal and accepting they were yet how they contradicted themselves with their nervousness and infected Spock’s control with it. The imminent visit of his aunt’s family, children his age come to judge him for not being Human enough just as his schoolmates judged him not Vulcan enough. How much everything moved, how it shouted and rioted and besieged him, how alive everything was, how bright this alien world was. The thoughts of Father on Mother’s family, how he would judge them, how he had already judged them, how he compared his mother to them, how he compared Spock to them. His speculations on his mother’s feelings that brought panic in him, that she would leave him for Earth, run back to a place that only knew her as a lost child come home and not a dangerous interloper as Vulcan judged.

He knew those feelings well, new variations on the same frustration, despair, shame and fear he’d experienced on Vulcan. He knows he can control them even when they assault him all at once like this, he has done it before and it will be no different on Earth. He will control them.

It takes time, but slowly, they recede. He understands them; he does not let them control him anymore.

Their cries become distant, less fevered and muffled, trapped on the other side of a great chasm. Spock being left free of the beasts that plague him, a mere observer, a visitor in one of the zoos his uncle had promised to take him to. He can watch them all he wishes, know them and understand their reason, their roars now whispers, soft and nagging but not battering against his consciousness any longer. He is in control.

When he opens his eyes the incense stick has burned all the way down but its ashes still smolder at the bottom of his burner. He feels calm for the moment, organized and centered.

It has been 1.12 hours since he began, the time now being 2314 hours Pacific Standard and he could no longer hear the faint noises of conversation from below him. The house was silent save for the endless hum of nighttime insects outside, but even that is softer now than before.

He feels less foggy than when he’d began but the day’s activities still wore at his body heavily if not his mind. Extinguishing any spark left in the burner he places it on the desk and rolls up his mat to store back in his bag.

Spock throws back the heavy quilt and settles in the smooth white sheets, the bed too cool for his bare calves and it sends is soft shudder up his spine.

The mattress creaks as he settles in, pulling the quilt up to his chin and he digs his heels into the mattress as he flexes his feet. It’s too cold, the bed is too soft, the pillows too plush and the scents that prevail all around him while, no longer entirely unfamiliar with the incense lingering in the air, are not conducive to restful sleep.

The quilt is thick though, made for cold Earth winters, and traps heat well. It becomes bearable after a few minutes wrapped underneath. Spock turns on his side, rubbing the side of his head, and effectively his ear, whose shell bends and folds with the movement, into the pillow. His eyes slide closed and a gentle huff of air escapes him as he shrugs the blanket farther up his shoulders to cover the other pointed ear which has felt cold ever since he laid down.

His mind is clear, or as clear as it could be, wrapped up in foreign sheets on a foreign world in a house where he feels more out of place than he’d ever felt on Vulcan. He does not think about the trial that is tomorrow morning as he sinks into the blackness of sleep.

No, he instead thinks of Vulcan. He thinks of his bed, his room, his home. The sound of the wind gently rattling the sand shutters, the smell of incense and candle wax soaked into every crease and pore, the feel of his very own blanket over his shoulder.

He does not immediately recognize this as longing, or the affliction known as ‘home-sickness’, and therefore does not banish the want from himself. Instead he curls into images Vulcan as he falls completely under and away, deep into the warm haze of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well first fic I've ever posted publicly ladies and gents. Be gentle with me then?  
> I originally wanted to put up something less... Expansive and fluffy and something more cracky and porn-y but I blame Seattle entirely. _(Lovely city, GREAT city, only once smelled like pee, terrible service at 90% of the restaurants though. The waiter would be a bumbling idiot or straight up rude, it was staggering.)_ I sat in my hotel room, right after hearing news of Arlene Martel's death mind you, and typed up a cutesy little scene and then it all spiraled terribly out of control and into kidfic oblivion. I am weak and have no idea what I'm doing. _Help..._  
>  Either way I think it is gonna be a long haul. I've given myself six months to work with, then of course adding on time skips and things so god knows how long this beast it exactly gonna be. _I promise Yuletide scenes though. I promise. Santa is illogical~ ___
> 
>  **trel’masu lizard** \- literally "slide water" lizard/made up/i went and bastardized the language  
>  **ta'al** \- the infamous Vulcan salute  
>  **Shi'Kahr** \- Vulcan's capital city  
>  **loshiraq** \- lotus position/cross legged/do not ask me how to pronounce it
> 
> Jonathan = Jimmy/weirdly enough like six people sense the beginning of ever have done this and I didn't want another James.  
> Comments and Kudos will nurture my soul. And, fair warning, this will probably end up being the shortest chapter. I am encourage-able and long-winded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hath no beta. So, un-beta'd. Thou hath been warned.

There were birds outside the window. **  
**

Little tawny things that twittered about fitfully and were never quite silent. Spock watched them, holding back the curtain with one light hand and grasping his PADD in the other, leaning slight on the window frame.

It was early, the sun just established over the horizon and the sky still starkly pale with the new morning light, and if not for the cries of these little incessant birds, Spock might have still been asleep. Burrowed under the warm sheets and dreaming of primeval forests straight out of Tolkien.

He did not know why he had almost over slept, the dream had not been entirely too pleasant, but it had not been unpleasant either.

It had been vivid, of course, and constructive to involuntary movements of his extremities while he slept, whipping the sheets about his legs in a tangled frenzy. His hair even sticking up at all angles for all its grinding against the pillow; along with the spare pillow managing to find its way to the floor where it had slouched awkwardly against the bed frame. All this incriminating evidence of the restless whimsy he had experienced.

A half-forgotten dream overlaying well the supposed rejuvenation sleep should have brought with an unwelcome agitation. A path of carnage in its wake even for the peaceful setting it borrowed.

He had been walking alone in a forest, a place so very old and ancient, not unlike the primeval forests that still stood on Earth in the most isolated of places, and dipped in the stifling grey of a thick fog.

He had not been lost for he had no destination, not even a starting point. He had not been pursued by anyone or was pursuing anything. He had just always been, and ever would be, wandering among the misty, gnarled tree trunks without need of purpose.

Not one creature had ever stirred among the greenery, not one cry or rustle of leaves had ever graced his senses. He had been completely and utterly alone in a place without time or reason or substance, yet he had never sought escape from his barless prison, never sought a break in the silence save the sound of his own foot falls.

If his feet had made sounds at all, his clarity on some of the specifics was a bit muddled much to his displeasure.

That said, it had not been threatening, just opaque now that he is of a more objective mind. He had thought his mediation last night had been successful in negating the brunt of his unrest, so he should have been more lucid, more aware while he lay dreaming if his mind had truly let the torrent of agitation be tamed.

It was now something to be examined in greater detail during his next meditation session. Best pushed aside till he could process the subconscious ramblings that should have not occurred in the first place.

It was already 0622 and he had just finished getting ready for the day, hair neatly combed, mouth banished of sulfuric morning breath and dressed in attire very Terran in origin.

His mother had purchased these garments, and those like them, for him. Some were purely for the sake of climate changes; coats and gloves and sweaters packed away in boxes, awaiting the arrival of winter to see the light of the Terran sun. Others existed for nothing more than the sake of “blending in”.

And that, at least for today, Spock found some logic in.

He would meet his two cousins today and he wanted to appear… Normal, approachable, acceptable. To them at least. Not that he was about to cover his ears and engage in illogical Human behavior, but it would be a pleasant change to just exist, without strenuous effort, in a state of mutual acceptance with someone his own age.

As such Spock would endeavor to encourage this outcome as much as Vulcan logic, and Vulcan dignity, allowed. A change of clothing —a change to a very plain, cream colored long sleeved shirt and a pair of beige corduroy pants— was hardly a hardship.

He had not worn Terran style clothing since he was four Earth years old —his mother having mostly been in charge of his daily routine then and him not having an opinion on the matter till that point— and the fabric is… Different from what he remembered.

Not exactly the fibrous, uniform cloth of Vulcan styles, more fine in places and more coarse in others. And it hung differently, clung to places he was not used to having fabric cling, flowed in places he was not used to having it flow. But it was tolerable.

Moreover, it was optimal for maintaining a preferred body temperature in the relative cool of an Earth summer.

He is more proficient for his age than most in regulating the functions of his body, but he has still not quite mastered the art of managing multiple complex functions at once. And heating a Vulcan body was, of course, more difficult than cooling one. Warm clothes were an easy remedy and with most Vulcan clothing designed for ample air flow these Terran garments were overall the more logical choice. Cousin approved or not.

Still the imminent meeting of his cousins was still many hours away, there was no reason to dwell on it yet, and in all likelihood the rest of his relatives would be awake for at the very least another hour. If not more, leaving him to his own devices till the Humans below stirred.

The most appropriate course of action, in his logical opinion, was to study till the others had awoken. Upon their arrival into the Sol system he had been interrupted and had been unable to finish reading a article on the life cycle of Earth native _Dendrogramma_ that had been quite fascinating.

Mother had called him down from their quarters to the observation deck to watch Saturn and Jupiter go by, the Captain had dropped to impulse when passing the system’s most famous gas giants so that his passengers could view their splendor. Jumping back to warp after the vessel had cleared Jupiter.

The observation deck had been relatively empty at the time due to the fact that the majority of passengers were Vulcan and had little interest in planet watching; making Spock and his Mother one of the few sitting in the low light and watching the great gas giants slowly drift by. It had eaten 2.26 hours out of their original estimated arrival time but Mother had found the experience worth the delay.

Meditation would have been a more practical use of that time, and in hindsight Spock wished he had spent it in that manner given the jostling he had been subjected to both metaphorically and literally right after his arrival on Earth.

Earth commuters had no concept of personal space nor any spacial awareness, he had his feet stepped on three separate times at the spaceport and been nearly run over by a panicked parent chasing after a loose toddler in at the shuttle dock. 

Previously that day Spock had seen one such Human child straining on the end of a leash designed to look like a stuffed bear clinging to the child’s back and he had thought it absurd. After that particular incident however, Mother had to steer him away from suggesting the device to the father who had nearly trampled him.

That —coupled with the incessant noise, bright lights and overall chaos Earth wrought— definitely, in hindsight, warranted a few extra hours of meditation.

Spock stepped away from the window and settled back on the bed, now neatly remade, to read his article. Tapping in his access key and darting through applications to pull up the document. He had just gotten to the paragraph where had left off when he heard a muffled sound.

He paused and listened carefully, it is most definitely is someone downstairs speaking, but he cannot tell who nor would he have believed anyone else to have been up at this hour had he not heard it for himself.

He cannot hear another distinct voice, only one low tone piercing the stillness of the early morning air. Possibly it is someone on their comm. or maybe even engaging in the Human habit of talking to one’s self which he had seen his mother do on occasion.

He slides off the bed and makes for the trapdoor, curious as to the voice’s identity. Climbing down the ladder swifty and heading down the hallway, the plush carpet makes the padding of his socked feet barely audible even to Vulcan ears but he can still hear the faint sounds of his grandmother’s snoring down the hall.

Reaching the top of the stairs he stops to listen for the voice, which had gone quiet the minute he had opened the trapdoor.

He doesn’t hear it at first, instead he finds the sounds of someone rattling ceramics. There is a clatter in the kitchen, some scuttling and finally a “curse” word spoken in a distinctly baritone voice that could have only been his great-uncle. Which explains why he hadn’t heard anyone traverse the hallway, Uncle Rob had been sleeping in the basement.

He holds the PADD close to his stomach as he descends the stairs, the last step creaking loudly enough to make him want to cringe, and makes his way to the kitchen through the quiet house, still very dim in the greyness of a Terran morning. He finds the kitchen threshold and stops, raising a bemused eyebrow at what he finds inside.

Uncle Rob is standing over the sink filling a pot with water, his posture heavily stooped with sleep, and quite unaware of Spock’s presence. Wearing loose plaid pajama bottoms and a bright blue T-shirt with lettering on the front —from this angle it is illegible to Spock. His wispy, grey hair sticking straight up in various places and a day’s growth is added onto the mangy stubble that masquerades as a beard.

He seems to be muttering to himself, words so jumbled and clipped Spock cannot make them out clearly even with his naturally acute hearing. Something about “coffee”, “slick floors” and “fucking fairy bastards” is all Spock is able to discern from the nonsensical ramblings.

Spock stands there, debating if he should risk startling a Human who is not quite fully awake and also, mind you, elderly, or continue to wait for his great-uncle to take of notice his presence. His mother had always disliked being “sneaked up on”, even though her definition of the term only defined walking into the same room as her without catching her notice. Spock is left to calculate the probability that this Human shares the same illogical tendency.

The decision, however, is made for him when Uncle Rob abruptly jerks his head up from where he’s nearly allowed it to sink down to touch the faucet and swings around to find Spock.

His great-uncle squints hard at him, as if Spock happens to be very far away, and blinks slowly. Spock stiffens slightly under scrutiny, a straightening of posture, but breaks the silence first,

“Good morning, Uncle Rob.”

Uncle Rob blinks again, first one eye then the other, much too slowly to have been an attempt at a wink. It just manages to look disturbing.

“You look like a deer caught in headlights…” He states, working himself off his elbows and bracing his hands on the counter instead. Spock can even hear the cracking of vertebrae from where he stands in the doorway as his great-uncle arches his back like a Terran feline.

Spock’s brow furrows slightly at the statement, not exactly sure how he exactly resembles a member of _Cervidae_ , let alone one caught in a bright beam of light.

“You been doin’ something you're not supposed to?” Uncle Rob adds, eyes narrowing in response to the lack of response.

Spock’s eyes, in response of course, widen a fraction at the accusation.

“I have done nothing, to my knowledge, that I have not been given leave to do.” He answers carefully.

His great-uncle looks at him a moment longer, the fierce accusation in his dark eyes having quickly wilted, instead they now possessed the lazy stare of a bovine domesticated for milk production. Albeit a curious one.

“Good,” He says with a brisk nod. Then, yawning widely, adds, “Goooooodmornin’ to you to then.”

Spock’s shoulders slowly relax and he steps farther into the kitchen, the chilled tiles already leeching the warmth out of his toes.

“The pot is overflowing.” Spock notes.

“Yup, it is.” Uncle Rob mutters, turning from him and quickly shutting off the taps to pull the coffee pot from the sink.

He stands there, coffee pot in hand, and rubs roughly at his face with the free one, pushing and pulling every wrinkle and digging into his eye sockets. A deep whiny moan reverberates from his chest before he stops attempting to rearrange his facial structure by sheer force and acknowledges Spock again.

“Thought I’d heard someone skulking about upstairs.” He says before tipping out the excess water in the pot and running a hand through his wild hair.

“I was not “skulking”.” Spock replies, doubtful that Uncle Rob would have heard his movements to begin with, whether he had  been “skulking” or not.

“Course not,” Uncle Rob agrees half-heartedly, moving past Spock towards the coffee maker. “What are you doin’ out of bed so early anyway?”

“It would not have been productive to have remained in bed any longer than necessary.” Spock asserts. He can finally see the lettering on his great-uncle’s shirt, it says “ _Geezer_ ” in embellished letters with “ _formerly known as stud-muffin_ ” in smaller text below.

“Oh really?” Uncle Rob yawns again, pouring water into the appliance's compartment. “Don’t you know that little squirts like you need their rest so they can grow up big and strong and the like?”

He wags an accusatory finger in Spock’s general direction without turning around, managing to chastise the shelf of cookbooks on the wall for his efforts.

“Vulcan children require significantly less sleep than Human children.” Spock informs his great-uncle.

“Golly-gee willikers, Batman! Really now?!” Uncle Rob’s is voice high and singsong-y as he says it.

Spock, to his credit, quickly determines this a rhetorical question because he is certainly not “Batman”... At least to his knowledge, barring any strange Terran custom his has not been informed of.

“Now I could be wrong here, but I had always been told you were a mixed nut,” Uncle Rob says, pressing a few buttons on the appliance, which responds with a shrill beep, and then continues, “Do _you_ , specifically, need more sleep?”

Spock finds his great-uncle’s metaphors highly illogical. “I assume you are referring to my hybridism when you compare me to a “mixed nut”, h—”

Uncle Ron interrupts him with a sharp exclamation of; “Indeed my little cashew!”

The vitality of his tone not consistent with his supposed morning demeanor. And Spock, consequently, theorize that his great-uncle is (A 92.83% chance) delirious from lack of sleep before continuing;

“While I am half-human my physiology is mostly Vulcan and _I_  require less sleep than Human children.”

“Really now?” Uncle Rob’s eyebrows raise, they appear amused.

“Affirmative.” Spock answers slowly, not exactly confident in his great-uncle’s ability to understand this morning.

Uncle Ron studies him for a moment, searching for any mistruth with a scathing gaze that he had conjured from the air. The sheer speed at which his expressions change is a bit strenuous of Spock’s ability to read at times.

But, apparently finding no falsehood, Uncle Rob nods sharply and says, “Alrighty then, you want some tea runt?” He makes a vague gesture towards the kettle.

“Yes, please.” Spock says with relief, glad for this most illogical exchange to have ended.

Uncle Rob jerks his head in the direction of the table, a rough indication for Spock to sit down. Spock interprets, and sits, setting his PADD down with a smart click on the tabletop before smoothly folding his hands in his lap.

He watches with mild interest as his great-uncle bustles about the kitchen, occasionally grunting or muttering something cryptic his breath, gathering another cup and a box of tea bags as he went. Humans, were exorbitant in their mannerisms, and tended to be hard not to notice.

He is also noticed his grandmother possessed no form of synthesizer, not even one for beverages, which was an oddity. Most households at least had one for beverages to his knowledge. Possibly his grandmother was a traditionalist in a sense; many Terran’s were when it came to the subject of sustenance, an innate distrust for that which they perceived modified or unnatural. It was, however, still a waste of effort to have to go through all the processes of preparing beverages while other, more efficient means existed.

That all being said, Spock could not recall his father ever taking synthesized tea if he had any other option...

“Did you sleep okay? You weren’t cold or anything?” Uncle Rob asks, tossing a tea bag into a mug, one that he had been especially deliberate about choosing. It wasn’t from the dark glazed set like the one he had been given last night; it was a brilliant green with stylized frogs decorating its surface in alternating shades of yellow.

“I was able to maintain a comfortable temperature while I slept.” Spock answers.

Spock is given a noncommittal “Hm,” in reply as Uncle Rob pours the steaming water into the mug. “No sugar right?” He asks.

“That is correct.”

“Strange child.” Uncle Rob hums to himself.

The coffee maker beeps at that moment, catching Uncle Rob’s attention. The look that spreads across his face is one reminiscent of a thirsty man promised water.

Fetching his own mug, which was much more reserved in design than the one he had chosen for Spock, he practically skips towards the coffee maker in his haste. Preparing his own beverage before retrieving Spock’s and making towards the table.

He hands Spock the tea and Spock curls his fingers around the warm cup, appreciating the heat radiating from it and how it seeps into his hands. There is one large jonquil frog staring out at him with large, melancholy eyes from between his fingers and he stares back thoughtfully.

“ _The ratio of the eyes to head size is anatomically incorrect._ ” He thinks.

Uncle Rob flips the chair next to Spock’s around so that the back is facing the table with a clatter, then promptly sits down in it the wrong way. His coffee sloshing a bit with the jerking movements, and he hisses softly when the hot liquid dribbles over his fingers. He then tuts before taking a long draw from the dark purple mug, sighing contentedly and slumping across the chair back.

Spock considers him for a moment while he teases the string hanging from the rim of his mug, it is the same green tea blend he drank last night. He sips it lightly, enjoying the flood of warmth tunneling down his throat and wrapping his tongue around the powdery, herbal taste that clings to its border. It still needs more time to seep but the warmth pooling from the center of his chest is welcome.

“May I ask as to why you are awake this early as well?” Spock breaks the silence first again, genuinely curious as to why Uncle Rob is up long before any Human should be.

“Nope.” Uncle Rob answers in a voice that is bright and cheery, as if he had just told the punch line to a great joke and was expecting resonating laughter for it.

Spock is a little vexed by his great-uncle’s reply, “May I ask why?”

“Reasons,” Uncle Rob falsely elaborates. His brows furrow for a moment considering, and he cocks his head before adding, “Adult reasons.” He punctuates by another gulp of his coffee.

Spock has no response for that.

“Are you wearing corduroys?” Uncle Rob asks suddenly, leaning over to examine Spock’s choice of wardrobe though the fact he had not noticed during his careful interrogation of Spock before hand was surprising.

“Yes.” Spock notes his great-uncle’s raised eyebrow and cavillous expression at his pants.

“God why?” Both eyebrows raise to his great-uncle’s messy hair line this time in an expression of bewilderment.

“Are they inappropriate?” Spock could find no reason why his choice of clothing this morning could be considered offensive.

“Well no but…” Uncle Rob started. “They’re corduroys...”

“Mother informed me I would look “fantastic” in them,” Spock found his mother’s descriptor at the time extravagant but had not voiced such; she had been quite excited when she had presented the pants along with the other articles of Terran style clothing.

Uncle Rob rolled his eyes. “Of course she did.” His tone being admonishing and heavily muttered.

“If you think it would be advisable I will go and change.” Spock adds, a little perturbed.

Uncle Rob waves him off, swirling the coffee in his mug, “Don’t bother,”

“Your mother has the strangest taste…” He adds and trails off with a snort.

“My mother’s taste is not “strange”.” Spock counters quickly, it comes out more venomously than he had intended. Whether or not he already regretted it was of little consequence now; whether Uncle Rob was capable of noticing was of little consequence as well.

“Yes. Yes it is. Always has been.” Uncle Rob says quickly, matter-of-factually. “Your Daddy is undeniable proof of that. All prickly as a cactus and such.” He also does a odd motion with his hand, in which he wiggles his fingers and throws out his arm in a wide arc.

The sudden amusement in the tweak of Uncle Rob’s lips and the glitter of mirth his eyes makes Spock’s jaw tighten.

Spock had expected this, maybe not flaunted so transparently but, it had only been matter of time before his parents were insulted in some manner. Earth flipping the subject’s places of course but the taunt still relatively the same.

“You're a little mama’s boy though, aren’t you?” Uncle Rob asks before Spock can defend his mother, his lips curve easily into a wolfish smile and he barks out a laugh.

“I am my mother’s biological offspring however I do not understand the implications behind the insult.” Spock’s tone still a little less tempered than he would of liked.

“ _Control._ ”

“In this context, it’s not an insult… Kinda, sorta, kinda. It’s usually an insult.” Uncle Rob rambles and then he swirls his coffee, pulling his lips back into an odd frown like contortion that isn't quite one.

“It’s not an insult now. I think it’s cute.” He cringes a little when he says that, putting his tongue between his teeth before taking another long draw of his beverage thoughtfully.

“You still have not entirely explained the phrase.” Spock says lowly, staring into the ripples on the surface of his tea with unneeded intensity.

“Well um —How I meant it at least, it means you love your momma and your gonna kick my butt for saying one half-bad thing about her and that’s just _precious_.” Uncle Rob croons.

Spock grip tightens around his mug as the tips of his ears begin to burn, his jaw even going a little slack. There is an audible click, at least audible to him, when he remembers to keep his mouth closed and teeth meet again.

“I do not—”

Spock’s bewildered answer is cut short by a heavy palm landing on the top of his head and absently ruffling his recently combed hair, burbling laughter following it.

“Ah! Sorry there runt.” And the hand is lifted away, not snatched or jerked back just lifted, the pads of its fingers dragging against the smooth dark hair as they go. Almost like being petted.

“Sorry,” Uncle Rob says again. “Coffee hasn't soaked into the ol’ gray matter yet.” He taps the side of his head nervously to empathize.

“It is...” Spock starts, trying to find his tongue. Still self-chastising for having fallen too easily for a few ill-toned words.

The slight transference he had experienced from Uncle Rob’s touch had been jarring, and entirely unexpected. He had projected no malice. Amusement, mirth, and shameless mischief surely. But nothing ill-intentioned.

“Your touch did not affect me adversely. But my mother’s decision to marry my father was not strange— it was a logical decision.” Spock explained. “They married to facilitate understanding between two very different races and I ask that you cease referring to it as strange.”

Uncle Rob’s eyebrows raise. He is utterly unimpressed, amused even by Spock’s explanation but he is not without his affection. He smiles.

“M’sorry runt.” And he holds up his hands in surrender.

“Ah, god, I should probably stop teasing you so much shouldn't I? I’m too much of an ass and you’re still too damn literal for it.” And his bony elbow meets the table with a thump, chin resting on the heel of his hand. He is still smiling.

Spock considers for a moment, “I would prefer that you cease teasing me entirely, it will prevent such misunderstandings from happening in the future.” He says lowly.

“I’ll try, but it’s a bad habit of mine.” Uncle Rob murmurs. “I’ll screw up more than once if I quit cold turkey.” He added and smiled a little.

“Cold turkey?” Spock found himself pausing for an explanation but thought better of it and continued, “Teasing can be a Human method of expressing affection correct? If you feel that you must express such notions you could do them in other ways.”

“I could couldn't I?” Uncle Rob then pretended to ponder, stroking his stubble. “Do you want a hug runt?”

“Negative.” Spock huffs.

“How about baby-talk?”

“”Baby-talk”?”

“How you talk to babies, and pets, and other cute things such as yourself. Much butchering of syllables and bright, happy tones.” Uncle Rob performs an action Spock had once heard called “jazz-hands”.

“That sounds highly undignified.” Spock pauses and adds, “I am not cute.”

“Bwut you ares swoo berry, berry coot.” Uncle Rob practically purrs.

“You sound as if you have a speech disorder, moreover, what you said also happens to sound suspiciously like teasing.” At this point Spock is very tired of Uncle Rob not taking him seriously.

“It is. I can’t help myself.” Uncle Rob says and sips his coffee.

“You are obviously not applying yourself.”

And at that Uncle Rob chokes on his beverage, coffee spitting out across the table top in spastic, wheezing spurts of garbled laughter. He slams a fist down onto the tabletop several times as he shakes with the force of trying to swallow and hold back laughter at the same time, flailing like a landed fish.

Spock just stares.

“Oh sweet baby Jesus you can’t do that to me! I’m old and it’s too early.” Uncle Rob manages out, still gasping for air and snickering.

“You hungry yet runt?” He then asks, wiping off his chin with the back of his hand.

“Not at this time, Uncle Rob.” Spock said, still a little tense and thankful for the subject change.

“Well I am.” Uncle Rob said, screwing up his face in thought. “I feel like pancakes, have you ever had pancakes runt?”

“I have not.”

“I’m makin’ pancakes then.” He announced and jerked up out of his chair. “Everyone come to Earth needs to try pancakes. Better sooner than later.”

“Do you require assistance?” Spock asked, ever a helpful child and mindful of his people’s own customs.

Uncle Rob’s ever present smirk got a little wicked then, “If your offering, runt.”

Spock was thoroughly wrangled into the preparation of breakfast, acting as assistant for his great-uncle, who also took the opportunity to teach Spock the craft of pancake making. While the measurements of ingredients were imperative, the way the were blended seemed just as important as Spock slowly tipped flour into the batter. Carefully studying the deep, turning strokes Uncle Rob made to ensure proper consistency.

Uncle Rob stated that pancake mix was for “jerk-offs” who should be banned from kitchens entirely. Spock had no strong opinion on the matter and deferred to his great-uncle’s experience.

Spock learned —by observation as Uncle Rob refused to let him pour from the heavy mixing bowl, thinking he would get batter everywhere no matter how many time Spock insisted that he would not— how to pour a perfectly round pancake onto a griddle without dribbling. When to flip them and how exactly one was to arrange fruit on a frying pancake.

After Spock had been given the task of manning the eggs, being shown how to crack the eggs of the Terran chicken ( _Gallus gallus domesticus_ ) and how to properly whisk them, how much milk to add and so on.

Uncle Rob, in turn, watched the pancakes and the bacon. The sickly sweet smell of the cooking grease unpleasant to Spock, but it was lessened slightly when Uncle Rob switched on the rangehood fan. He had a large round spatula in one hand and a fork in the other as he stood at the stove beside Spock. Chatting absently at Spock, not with him.

Mother, according to Uncle Rob, liked bananas in her pancakes, cut not in slices but in half then lengthwise and the batter poured on top, instead of having them placed or already within the batter. The specificity of his mother’s requirements for pancakes was a little surprising to Spock, he had never known her to be so illogically particular about her food.

And when he had mentioned it Uncle Rob had laughed.

“When your mother was about half your age —give or take a day— she was helping me make pancakes and I told her to get the fruit ready. She went and sliced the bananas in half then lengthwise just like she did the strawberries.

“After that she wouldn’t have them any other way because she got so mad when I teased her for slicing the bananas that way she insisted she did in on purpose.” He explained, smiling. “As for the fruit before batter thing I have no idea where it comes from. Really it just makes the griddle sticky but she likes it that way.”

“Why would she still hold onto her pride for the sake of a insignificant mistake she made in her childhood?” Spock asked, genuinely puzzled as this did not sound at all like something his mother would do.

“Oh, she’s not actually still cross about the whole thing anymore. It’s just tradition now, runt.” And Uncle Rob flipped another finished pancake unto the ever growing stack. “Does she still like her bacon chewy?”

“I do not know.” Spock had never seen his mother consume meat, let alone the fatty strips of pork flesh known as bacon. It was disconcerting to imagine even though he knew she was Human and therefore had therefore, in likelihood, regularly engaged in the consumption of animal flesh before she had married Father and relocated to Vulcan.

Uncle Rob tsked and stirred the bacon in a sizzling fit while flipping with his other hand.

“You sure you don’t want any?” He asked for the third time.

“Like most Vulcans, I am a vegetarian.” Spock explained for the third time.

“It’s gooooooood.” He insisted, making a show of leaning over the pan and inhaling deeply.

“I do not eat meat.” Spock asserted.

“Suit yourself.” Uncle Rob hummed and Spock turned back to stirring the eggs about the pan so they did not cook unevenly.

Five minutes and thirty-four seconds later, as Uncle Rob was helping, he insisted on helping, him transfer the eggs from the skillet to a serving dish, Spock heard the stairs squeaking as someone descended them; the the weight and presence behind those footsteps very familiar.

“Good morning.” Mother says as she walks into the kitchen, smiling softly.

“Mornin’” Uncle Rob chirps back happily, scraping the last of the fluffy, steaming eggs into the dish.

Spock’s “Goodmorning, Mother.” is much less enthusiastic by comparison, but no less genuine even though it is a mere inconsequential greeting.

“I see Uncle Rob has strong-armed you into playing chief’s assistant.” She notes as she steps up behind Spock, peering over his head at the veritable bounty both he and Uncle Rob had managed to produce.

Spock believed it too much for three Human adults and a Vulcan/Human hybrid child to consume, but Uncle Rob had been adamant about the quantity of food prepared.

Uncle Rob sticks his lower lip out at her, putting on a face of mock guilt, “The little runt offered!”

“I did offer, Mother.” Spock verified.

She smiled, and tenderly straightened a strand of hair the Spock was sure wasn't out of place. Her fingertips barely brushed his temple, the manicured tips of her nails just barely grazing his skin, but he could still sense the faint, warm buzz of contentment that radiated from her.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks.

“My rest was satisfactory, was yours as well?”

“Hmm, I woke up to the smell of pancakes so I would say it was quite satisfactory.” That smile that had been lingering in the corners of her mouth widens, threatening to throw a glimpse of teeth.

“Made just the way you like em’.” Uncle Rob cut in, transferring the bacon onto a plate.

“You remember how I like my pancakes?” Mother asks, her eyes widening slightly as she examines the griddle.

“What do you take me for?!” Uncle Rob’s voice sounding quite offended. “What kind of shitty uncle forget how his niece takes her pancakes?”

Mother laughs for him, low and quiet as Spock has always known her laugh to be. A stolen piece of a breeze that would roll in before a storm.

“Do you still like your bacon chewy?” Uncle Rob asks her.

“I don’t eat meat anymore.” She answers him.

“Jesus H. Christ.” And Uncle Rob manages to pull off a comically over-proportioned face of shock with that exclamation.

Mother doesn't look very impressed by it, Spock is just curious.

“I was not aware the religious figure known as Jesus Christ had a middle name.” Spock says and Uncle Rob snorts in response.

“Yeah, it’s Harold.” He says and Mother covers her mouth with her hand to hide a grin.

“That name is inconsistent with the time period and geographic location of the individual.” Spock raises an eyebrow, folding his hands behind his back.

“That was also a joke, now hop to it and go put the eggs on the table. Yer’ grannie is gonna be stumbling down the stairs like a drunk wildebeest any minute now and she’s gonna want her eggs.” Uncle Rob made a shooing motion for good measure, but still glanced timidly at Mother for permission to order her offspring about now that she was to bare witness.

Mother offers no real complaint, other than an apologetic glance sent at her son and who complies. Though he finds the description Uncle Rob gave of his grandmother disagreeable, he dutifully arranges the dish of eggs on the table he had set with instruction before hand.

“Nice shirt.” Mother comments, glancing over Uncle Rob.

In response, he about tugs his collar, glancing between mother and son. “I feel a little underdressed.”

Mother “hmmms”, fingering the fabric of her flowing skirt and pulling it enough that the hem swayed about her calves. Amused as she looks over Uncle Rob’s attire.

“Oh the field will even when Mom comes down, I heard her fall out of bed when I was in the hall.” She assures him.

“Sabby defiantly isn't a Mary Sunshine in the mornings…” Trailing off with a thoughtful expression. “But if I recall correctly you were never bright eyed and bushy tailed enough to wriggle out of those goddamned footies either.” He counters.

“I stopped wearing footie pajamas when I was nine,” She pauses, tilts her head and looks thoughtful, wistful even. “Save the brief stint the winter of 2216 when they were so warm I just couldn't resist.”

Then she manages a soft, teasing smirk before adding, “Moreover I’m a grown woman, I get up and seize the day now.”

Uncle Rob groans animatedly, stacking the last of the pancakes.

“Mornings are the devil.” He hisses at her. “And you there, little missy, are just rubbing salt and lemon juice and all manner of sting-y things in the wound with your combed hair and cheery smile and pretty little, put together outfit. Bleh.”

“Bleh, indeed.” She answered.

“Bleh!” Uncle Rob spat out at her, mock lunging a little as he gathered up the two plates of precarious pancake towers and swaggered off towards the table. Grinning from ear to ear.

Spock stood next to his mother, watching the juvenile and frankly odd exchange with mild interest.

“He didn’t tease you too terribly this morning did he?” Mother leans over and asks, her voice hushed.

“Nothing beyond my capability to handle.” Spock’s answer lacking her lower volume and strictly monotone. There was no need to mention the near incident to her.

She “Hmms”, apologetically for Uncle Rob’s sake, before glancing over at the animated man arranging stacks of pancakes with an unnecessary level of precision.

And to Uncle Rob’s credit, Grandmother Sabrina did come down the stairs 1.23 minutes later after the rest of the household had taken their seats, looking quite bleary eyed and nearly drugged. The descriptor of a “drunken wildebeest” was still entirely uncalled for but Spock could see the parallels at the very least as she staggered to the table yawning widely.

“Hmmmm’, mornin’.” She murmured quietly as she plopped down into a chair next to Mother. Still dressed in pale, floral print pajamas and her hair in all manner of disarray.

“Morning, Mom.” Mother reciprocated cheerily as Uncle Rob slid her a mug of waiting coffee.

“You look like shit, Sissy.” He said in way of greeting, grinning cheekily as his sistered cradled the offered beverage in her hands.

Grandmother Sabrina paused, staring into her coffee with a drugged sort of expression, before she completely registered what had been said to her with a frown and a long sip of her coffee.

“I’m going to forgive the insult because you gave me coffee but,” She sat her cup down on the table and picked up her folded napkin, scattering the silverware upon it. She considered it for but a short moment. Then she quickly reared up over the table, threatening to smash the egg platter, and smacked Uncle Rob over the ear with her napkin.

He yelped and reared back in response, chair squealing back a few centimeters on the tile.

Grandmother Sabrina sat back down with a huff, folding the napkin in her lap. “No cursing in front of the boy.”

“Jesus Sabby, its not like he’s gonna repeat it.” Uncle Rob grumbled, rubbing his ear. “He’s a good little cyborg, god forbid he’d ever say anything so vulgar.”

“I am not a cyborg but, you are correct.” Spock piped up. “I have no need to “curse”, therefore you should have no fear that I might repeat Uncle Rob’s profanity, Grandmother Sabrina.”

“Sounds half-robot to me.” Uncle Rob muttered into his coffee and both females on the other side of the table shot him a glare. He ignored Grandmother Sabrina’s but seemed to shrink guiltily at the sight of Mother’s.

“Well,” Grandmother Sabrina started, turning to Spock. “That makes you a very smart boy Spock. It’s a crude habit that would make you sound uneducated.” Though her last statement didn’t seem to be directed at him, her eyes darting to find her brother’s who made a strange, mocking face at her challenge. “But, I would still prefer Rob to stop cursing in front of you.”

Uncle Rob just points at Spock; apparently he believed it was all he needed to defend his actions and then picks up the bacon plate, offering it to his sister as if to placate her.

“Have some bacon and hush, I had to wait for you now hurry it up before everything goes cold.” He muttered.

Grandmother Sabrina snorted at him, but picked up her plate and began transferring strips of bacon onto it, the rest of the table took cue and began making their own selections from the provided dishes.

“Thank you for making him wait, there would have been no bacon left if he’d been given free reign.” Grandmother Sabrina leaned over and said softly to Mother, who smiled and let their elbows touch.

“I would have done nothing less, I know _him_.” Mother murmured quietly back, spooning eggs onto her plate.

Uncle Rob snorted at her comment, but was content to heap pancakes on Spock’s plate. Two plain, one blueberry and one banana 12.2 centimeter diameter discs of fried carbohydrates were stacked on his plate. A thin pad of butter placed on top of each before another pancake was added.

Mother gave Uncle Rob a dubious look, and sent a questioning one to her son. A quiet buzz thrummed through the parental-bond they shared; though as it was not a direct-link, detouring through Father’s mind, it was only a soft ripple on the parts of both parties. With Father being away and most likely shielding himself to outside distractions it could only be that mild comfort.

Spock responded in kind, watching his great-uncle drizzle copious amounts of syrup (Which he learned was made from the Terran sugar maple ( _Acer saccharum_ ) tree’s xylem sap) on his breakfast, and the bond hushed. Its other end reassured of his complacency in this.

Though just because he was complacent didn’t mean he was sure. He doubted he consume the whole stack of pancakes along with any of the eggs and fruit he had intended to. And if he choose to only eat the pancakes he would still be grievously overeating.

“There we go.” Uncle Rob hummed, very pleased with his work.

“Are you trying to fatten him up?” Grandmother Sabrina asked, salting her eggs.

Uncle Rob scoffed. “Well if you're not going to do your job I might as well.”

“What, should I stuff him full of pancakes while I heat up the oven? I don’t live in a gingerbread house you know.” She snorted.

“You are a witch though, that’s at least half the battle. But let face it, you’d overcook him.” Uncle Rob shot back merily.

“To waste all that good, tender, exotic meat, nope.” And he shook his head. “No you let me do the cooking. We’ll butcher him, cure him, smoke him, and serve him with green eggs.” He added, procuring his own pancakes.

“It would take way too long to cure him.” Grandmother Sabrina countered bluntly.

Mother quickly gave an “everything is alright, I swear” glance to her visibly shocked son, at least it was visible to a woman well versed in the subtlety of Vulcan expressions. Though it did not ease the confusion Spock had at the conversation.

“They’re just teasing, Spock.” Mother said, reaching under the table and touching Spock’s knee.

He did not need this from her, he did not need to be coddled through his new found family’s illogical teasing, and the waves of reassurance she sent to him through the contact made him shy away. When he turned his knee from her hand she took the hint and quickly retreated, both physically and mentally, and Spock felt the guilt rise in him for it.

“No, we’re not.” Uncle Rob deadpanned, turning to Spock and licking his lips. “Cannibalism _is so_ in right now. Well, half-cannibalism in this case— I say it still counts and I’m a total slave to trends you know.”

“Rob, stop it. You’re scaring him.” Grandmother Sabrina warned.

“Hell if I am.” Uncle Rob barked back. “Am I scaring you runt?”

“I was not frightened.” Spock asserted.

“See!?” Uncle Rob once again pointed at Spock, and then went to cutting his pancakes into slices.

Grandmother Sabrina sighed, Mother looked solemn and ate her eggs, and Spock went about copying Uncle Rob’s actions in the cutting of his pancakes. Though once the top pancake, the banana one with all it caramelized fruit pieces, was cut he paused.

“The koo-lali bird of Myli XI lays an egg with a green-blue yolk.” Spock said, adjusting the placement of the pancake pieces in a pattern most optimal for consumption.

He was familiar with the Dr. Suess book they had referenced; he had read it, and other works by Dr. Seuss, as a toddler. He had been most fond, at the time, of “Oh, The Places You’ll Go”.

“How far away is Myli XI?” Uncle Rob asked, smirking as he folded over and stabbed an oversized pancake slice before shoving it gracelessly into his mouth.

“Approximately twenty-two light years from Earth.” Spock answered, spearing his own piece of syrup drenched pancake.

“Sounds like we’ve got Thanksgiving covered real early this year.” Uncle Rob mumbled through a mouthful.

Grandmother Sabrina giggled, sputtering around a long draw of her coffee, and, most importantly, Mother smiled. Quite directly so at her son.

“Well, I’ll _definitely_ be there. Sounds delicious.” She said.

Spock basked for a moment in the relaxed atmosphere before taking his first bite of pancake.

It was not pleasant.  
  
 ****

-

Grandmother Sabrina’s backyard was a straight and narrow stretch of vibrant green, flanked by dense flower beds that drew the boundary on both sides and open at the end towards a road that had been completely devoid of any traffic. Beyond the road was a field that gradually faded by pinpricks of unkept foliage till it disappeared into a fragmented pocket of wilderness.

Birds fluttered in a riot of wings to and fro from the flowering bushes that rode the property lines, twittering incessantly as they went about their daily business. There was a soft breeze pushing from the west but it was still generously warm, if not still humid, with the sun beginning to climb steadily higher in the sky.

And there were butterflies.

Small, delicate, nervous things in decorated orange and black and yellow and brown. Darting about the flora; favoring the _Leucanthemum vulgare_ and _Calendula officinalis_ flowers.

Vulcan did not have butterflies. There were insects that performed the same function yes, pollinators, but nothing quite like butterflies.

“Do you know what species those butterflies are, Uncle Rob?” Spock asks, watching and contemplating the strangeness of the common Terran name for the suborder _Rhopalocera_. He knew more about Earth native flora than fauna, partially due to his own curiosity and mostly due to his mother’s preference for gardening and subquencial influence on her son.

“Hm?” Uncle Rob looks up from where he is fiddling his toy vehicle. “The little ones by the daisies? Uh, I think they’re painted ladies.” And he goes back to tinkering with the axles.

After breakfast, which had once again become a dramatic affair when Spock informed his great-uncle that he did not find pancakes agreeable, Uncle Rob had brought out a toy automobile that Spock could “play with” while they waited for Aunt Doris and her family to arrive.

It was a garish, shiny neon organ thing set on high rugged wheels and, apparently, in need of repair. One of Spock’s cousins —Jimmy or Lester, no one could remember— had left it the last time they had stayed at Grandmother Sabrina’s house.

Uncle Rob was apparently mechanically minded however, and said he could fix it, so, after he had dressed he taken Spock outside to enjoy the fresh air and “play”.

“Do you know their binomial nomenclature?” Spock asks, still watching the little insects in question.

“Their binomial nomen-what?” Uncle Rob finally completely pulls away, perplexed and repeatedly mouthing the words.

“Their binomial nomenclature.” Spock repeats, and when he is met with a puzzled and simi-blank stare adds, “Their scientific name.”

Uncle Rob’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, I knew that term sounded familiar. And no, I do not. Ask your Grannie later, she might know. I don’t even know if they’re painted ladies f’sure.” He shrugs and goes back to the toy.

If Spock had his PADD with him he could have accessed the data he had downloaded on Terran insects and ascertained the information himself, though he did not think any of the adult parties present would be agreeable to him fetching the device. As swiftly as he would be able to do so regardless, as it still sat on one of the kitchen counters.

Uncle Rob’s offended expression when Spock suggested he go to his room and study instead of playing, and the fact Mother and Grandmother Sabrina still occupied the kitchen in all likelihood, was compelling evidence.

The two women had indicated they wished to be alone and “catch up”, it was unlikely they would appreciate being disturbed even if he was only there to fetch his PADD and leave. How fast they had shooed him out the door once he had fetched his shoes was indication enough.

Spock stepped off the patio and onto the lawn, noting the difference in density compared to the bare ground he was used to, the grass and soil seeming to want to give under his feet. He already felt light in Earth’s gravity but he had not stepped off a completed solid surface till now and it took a few bounces on his heels to assure the more primal parts of his brain, in fact, standing on solid ground.

The grass was still a little wet with dew in the shade of the _Qurcus garryana_ tree that towered overhead, and it left damp trails on his shoes and the bottoms of his pants as he walked towards the flowerbeds. The breezes blowing in stirred the leaves which in turn stirred the shadows they cast; painting the lawn in light and darkness.

Butterflies scattered as he approached. He waited for them to flutter towards him again, to the “oxeye” daisies ( _Leucanthemum vulgare_ ) he waited in front of, but they stayed well away. And when he followed they darted away again, settling on bushes well out of an arm’s reach.

It did not matter, it would be better to view them up close but he could view their behavior from where he stood and perhaps if he held still long enough they may come closer. He was standing in front of a prime feeding spot after all.

He observed them flutter about for a few short moments, twitching, little living flowers that darted about indecisively from one bloom to another. His eyes followed a pair fluttering about each other, twirling into the sky in a sort of mating dance, thinking and inhaling the scent of flowers.

_Mother had been standing next to him, packaging way the leftovers would keep and tossing what would not while he placed the soiled dishes in the washer. Left alone to clean-up while Grandmother Sabrina and Uncle Rob had gone to get dressed._

_Grandmother Sabrina had called him a “sweet boy” for offering to clean-up; Uncle Rob called him a “suck-up” while he huffed out of the room, still mad about Spock’s opinion of pancakes. He was childish._

_Spock did not “hate” pancakes, as Uncle Rob thought he did, he just found with syrup and butter and fruit piled on the fried carbohydrate discs were nauseatingly rich. They were acceptable plain and he had eaten two in such a manner after the rest of the syrup drenched stack upon his plate was neatly divided between the remaining diners. Why Uncle Rob was mad at him for his opinion was beyond him._

_If his mother preferred her pancakes cooked in an illogical manner then surely he was entitled to his plain pancakes._

_The silence none shared between mother and son was short of peaceful, but not uncomfortable. Mother less focused on her task than Spock, giving worried glances._

_“Are you doing okay?” She asked him, this question had been coming for a long time._

_“I have only been on Earth for thirty-one point four hours, Mother.” Spock intoned._

_“Spock.” She said lowly, her gaze growing stern. She was in no mood for Vulcan evasion today._

_“You can go to the Embassy if you want to —if you need to. I know this is probably… Disconcerting for you.” Using bigger words did not change the meaning, but it was somehow less damning than shocking, daunting,_ frightening _._

_“I will adjust.” Spock said._

_Mother paused. “Are you sure tal-kam?” Her voice growing so soft._

_“I will adjust.” Spock assured, internally squirming a little under the weight of the endearment but meeting his mother’s gaze._

_She smiled at him, gently and almost sadly, and touched his hair. Adjusting strands he knew were in perfect order and he allowed the pleasurable scrape of nails against his scalp; let the stormfront of love, assurance and concern to buffet his shaky shields. And if some snuck through the cracks if was of no consequence, for the moment, at least._

_“Alright, tal-kam.”_

He was snapped from his revery when a he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

There was a boy standing in the road, not quite in the middle but close enough. When the boy saw Spock looking back at him he smiled and waved. Spock politely waved back, though he did not smile. The boy, a Human most likely, was approximately 1.19 meters, almost as tall as Spock, possessing light skin and shortly cropped, blonde hair.

The boy grinned in response to Spock’s wave, blisteringly bright, and began to approach. Cutting across the neighboring lawn at a brisk, bouncing jog.

Spock had not intended to facilitate a meeting, he had been told by his mother once that he should wave back when someone waved at him as it was polite, but he hadn't expected the boy to do anymore than wave back and continue on his way.

“Hi.” The boy said, walking up on the other side of the flower bed and scattering the insects in his wake as he dragged a hand across the flower stems. He wore a shirt that was a chaotic swirl of blacks, blues, purples with erratic rings of white; the colors splotched together like stains. If Spock were more whimsical he would have thought it looked like a nebula.

“Hello.” Spock responded.

“What’ca doin’?” The boy asked, his brilliantly blue eyes curious.

“Observing the behavior of these butterflies; which you have disturbed.” Spock explained, folding his hands behind his back to avoid any hand shaking.

“Oh... ” The boy looked about him and frowned a little. “Sorry.”

“Your apologies are unnecessary.”

At that the boy’s frown deepened and he cocked his head. “Why are you watching butterflies?”

“To learn more about their behavior.” Spock answered matter-of-factually.

“Why?”

“I was not aware I needed a reason other than the pursuit of knowledge.”

The boy snorted, smiling and scratching at his ears. “You’re funny.” He said.

If Spock would frown, he would have then. “There is no need to be insulting.”

“I wasn't being insulting, it’s a compliment.” The boy was still smiling; he was missing one of his front teeth, his lateral incisor, with the start of an adult tooth peaking out from his pink gums.

Spock didn't answer, choosing silence and a dubious eyebrow raise instead.

The boy laughed again, covering his mouth with his hands. They sported two star patterned bandages on the left and one on the right.

“It’s a good thing, really.” The boy insisted with frantic head nodding.

“Very well.” Spock conceded, but not entirely convinced.

The silence that followed was a little uncomfortable. The boy just stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels, smiling and looking around at the flowers, the butterflies and, occasionally, Spock.

If he wished to observe the insects as well that was perfectly fine with Spock. However, it would be more preferable if the boy went somewhere else and did it, he was distracting. The boy proved to be in constant in motion. Fidgeting and sniffling, pulling at his ears or practically dancing in place. He seemed to lack the ability to even stand still for a mere Terran second.

He was also colorful, his shirt notwithstanding, the blue and yellow of the bandages he sported on his hands, elbows and knees standing out against his light skin. Every time they moved Spock eyes were drawn to them and away from the butterflies like magnets.

The boy’s eyes were also a too bright shade of blue, and every time they found Spock’s, and they did seek out his regularly, Spock found he had to look away. For whatever, perfectly logical, reason.

“Do you know the binomial nomenclature for this species?” Spock asked so that he would have at least a logical reason to look a the boy, disliking how much he was studying him. Cataloging every tiny shift in his freckles as the boy’s lips puckered and un-puckered idly.

The boy looked thoughtful, pulling his mouth to a pouty caricature of a frown. “Nope.”

“Do you know what binomial nomenclature means?” It occurs to Spock he should have used the terms “scientific name” or “Latin name” instead. If his great-uncle did not know the meaning it was unlikely this child did.

The boy huffed. “Now you're being insulting.” And he crossed his arms over his chest and straightened out his back so that he might puff his chest out.

“I am not being insulting, I am merely ascertaining whether you know the meaning of binomial nomenclature.” Spock found baser parts of himself wanting to puff out his chest in a display of primitive defiance as the boy was doing, to be a mirror, but he was better than that. “What is the meaning?”

“You are.” The boy asserted. “And it’s like, scientific name and stuff.”

“I am not.” Spock insisted.

“You are. You _in-sin-u-at-ed_ I was stupid.” The boy said, sounding out each syllable.

“I did not. Vulcans do not insinuate.” Human children had incredibly frail egos.

“Lair. You so did.” The boy shot back.

“Vulcans do not lie, I did not insinuate you were stupid.” Spock continued to insist, though he doubted he would accomplish anything by doing so.

“Prove it.” The boy challenged, pointing at Spock’s chest in a challenge.

“Vulcans are logical, lying is illogical, therefore Vulcans do not lie.” The logic was circular and stunted of context, but if Spock planned to end his association with his Human quickly it would not be preferable to into detail on Surak’s views —and the various notations and observations made by other respected Vulcan philosophers— on the act of lying.

The boy snorted, in amusement or disbelief or possibly both, putting both hands on his hips and striking a pose that thrust his hip to one side and did not look particularly balanced. He looked Spock up and down, as if he could see mistruth, though it did not matter if the boy believed him or not, Spock had no need for his belief.

In fact Spock had no need for this boy at all.

“If you will exc—” Spock started, beginning to turn away though he was loath to abandon the insects, he could come back when the boy got bored.

“You’re a Vulcan?” The boy cut him off.

“I am Vulcan.” Spock answered, not without the slight, slight hint of tentative doubt the proclamation always carried in the presence of a stranger. As if he expected the same skeptical glance he usually received at the proclamation from this Human.

“Cool.” The boy was smiling again, the slight animosity before seemingly forgotten.

“Indeed.” Spock intoned, and the boy laughed again.

“You’re funny.” He stated.

“Apparently so.” And the boy laughed again while Spock repressed the mild indignity he felt at being laughed at, even if it was in a “good way”. He needed meditation, or at least solitude.

“What are you doing in Ms. Sabrina’s yard?” The boy asked suddenly. Spock did not know why the boy knew his grandmother’s first name but he found he did not find it acceptable.

“She is my maternal grandmother, I am visiting for the week.” He explained.

“Oh, are you adopted?” The boy asked, tactlessly.

“No. I am my parent’s biological child.” And Spock straightened his shoulders with the explanation; as if his Father might come out from behind the tree to make sure the boy who claimed to be his son was standing up straight.

“Ms. Sabrina is Human; is your mother adopted?” The boy inquired. His tact still lacking.

“No.”

“Oh.” The boy’s brows furrow. “You’re Vulcan though.”

“I am “Vulcan” as you are “Terran”. However in referring to species, I am, specifically, a Vulcan/Human hybrid.” Spock was extremely exasperated by this point.

The boy just smiled. “So you’re like a liger?”

“Ligers were hybrids created for no purpose other than Human amusement. I was conceived to foster unity between my mother and father’s races and, at the most basic, to pass on their genetic material. The only similarity I share with ligers is my hybridism.” Spock asserted.

The boy snorts, “Ligers are cool though.”

“Ligers served no legitimate purpose.” Spock says dryly.

“M’kay.” The boy holds up his hands in surrender, something Spock does not trust for a second.

“You look Vulcan though. Like full-on Vulcan.” He made a show of examining Spock from a strangle, hobbled over angle and he was liable to slip and fall on his head.

“Thank you.” Spock said, eyes widening slightly in surprise. He had never before been accused of looking “Vulcan”.

“Though it is to be expected, I must look more Vulcan than Human to a Human.” He thought.

“So you just lean real hard towards the tiger half?” The boy asks as he straightens up.

“If you are still using the liger metaphor, which I object to, and not being literal, I would lean more towards my “lion” half as my father was Vulcan.” Spock says, though the idea of his mother being a lioness is strangely fitting. She would most likely appreciate the comparison given the symbolic implications in Terran culture of being a “lioness”.

“Tomāto, tomäto.” The boy shrugged.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, um, it’s a saying thingy. It means, like, um; “You go your way and I’ll go mine.” or something like that.” The boy paused, adding in a confused head tilt, “You never heard it?”

“That sentence is grammatically incorrect, but no, I have not.”

The boy did not look so amused this time. “You’re a jerk. And like, how could you have never heard that before?”

“Only in your opinion.” Spock said to the insult, choosing not to point out the boy’s grammatical butchering this time, then continued, “For 98.64% percent of my existence I have lived on Vulcan, I am not familiar with Terran idioms.”

“Do Vulcans have id-i-oms?” The boy asked after a thoughtful pause.

“No.”

“They’re not logical?”

“They are not.”

“Do Vulcans ever do anything illogical or illogically?”

“To do so would mean they would no longer be Vulcans.” Spock found his logic to once again be undeniably circular but shame on him if he were to put a speed bump in this charming conversation.

The boy just scoffed. “You wanna play now?” He asked, clapping his hands together and balancing on his toes.

“Play what?” Spock asked.

“I don’t know, um, a game?”

“That is highly unspecific.”

“Well what do you want to play?”

“I have not agreed to “play”.”

“Well you should.” The boy asserted. Harrumphing a bit.

“I am well aware of the mental and physical benefits of structured games. However I wished to observe the behavior of these butterflies, you are welcome to join me as long as you are quiet.” Spock shot back, turning to said insects and partially ignoring his “companion”.

“Phhft, that’s boring.” The boy whined.

“You do not have to join me, you are free to go play by yourself.” Spock said quietly.

The boy scowled at Spock, harumphing again and crossing his arms about his chest so he could tuck in his chin and glare at the Vulcan. He stood there like that for a few moments, sulking and glaring at the Vulcan boy with all his might before he suddenly started.

Those blue eyes flashing with ardor, overtaken by inspiration, and he smirked as he began digging into his shorts’ pockets fervently.

“What are you doing?” Spock asked him, unable to entirely focus on the insects with his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Somethin’ cool.” The boy said, producing a pebble sized object wrapped in colorful paper, he unwrapped it, exposing the green, shiny and glass like thing inside. He stuffed the wrapper back into his pocket and simultaneously shoved the little pebble into his mouth.

Spock could hear the object clicking against his teeth as he sucked and worried it with his tongue, still digging into a pocket and proceeded to pull out another wrapped pebble, empty wrappers spilling out with a crinkle in his wake.

“M’here.” He garbled out, trusting the object at Spock over the flower bed.

“No thank you.” Spock quickly refused, eyeing the brightly wrapped pebble suspiciously.

The boy merely became more insistent, practically shoving the pebble at Spock while muttering out illegible things around his salvia inhibited tongue. Spock feared he might topple over and crush his grandmother’s prized flowers for all his wriggling, so, cautiously, he reached out and took the offered token.

It was small, no bigger than an aylak’s eye, and wrapped in pink and white striped paper. It read “Strawberry” in miniscule print along it’s twisted edges. An indication that it was actually edible, loath as Spock was to follow the strange boy’s lead blindly on such matters.

Spock had tasted strawberries before; Mother had procured them once when he was three Terran years of age. She had shared the oblong shaped, bright red fruit with him.

She had said that they were not as good as they could have been, having been put in to statius and shipped across light years of space from a Terran colony, she had said they were too sour and she pointed out their white insides when she said they should of been red.

Veritasis III had the wrong kind of soil she said, it was too wet, and she chided her own misguidance at having ordered them from the colony.

Spock had found their texture satisfactory, their sourness not deterring from the fact they were plump and juicy. She had given the whole carton to him after she had nibbled on two, though she had been disappointed with them she seemed lifted when he had eaten them all. She had smiled, petted his hair while he sat in her office, trying not to swing his legs —because his father had told him not to fidget— while he sat next to her trying to figure out the linguistic data running across her computer screen.

This object, however, was not any species he knew as a member of Fragaria. It was not a fruit of any sort as far as Spock could tell, possibly a seed or a nut, though it was not a strawberry’s seed at their seeds were much, much smaller.

“What is it?” Spock questioned, not taking his eyes from the perplexing, gift-wrapped, pebble.

“It’s candy.” The boy managed out, having shoved his “candy” to the other side of his mouth and was probing the inside of the opposite cheek with a finger, drenching it in syrupy spittle as he pulled it out, still connected by a green tinged strand before it broke.

“You know what candy is right?” He asked.

“A sweet food stuff made with sugar or syrup and combined with chocolate, fruit or nuts with little to no nutritional value.” Spock recited, still not quite believing this was edible and poorly repressing his disgust at the boy’s actions.

“Well eat it then, Merriam-Webster.” The boy scoffed, taking a long, loud suck from the candy in his mouth and turning towards the butterflies. Slowly creeping towards with his spit covered finger outstretched in offering.

The boy either did not hear or did not care when Spock said quietly that his name nor title was not Merriam-Webster while he examined the candy in his fingers.

Spock watched the boy slowly creep up on the nervous insects, moving much more slowly than he would have ever thought the boy capable of, managing to only spook a few individuals as he zeroed in on his target.

He lent down and gently offered his hand to the insect who was feeding on a marigold blossom, when he touched his finger tip to the flower petal he froze, not daring to breathe.

The insect paused, considering and touching the find inquisitively with its feet, before crawling onto his hand, sipping at the sugar filled saliva it found. The boy smirked triumphantly, slowly rose and worked his way back to Spock, presenting the butterfly to him.

“Cool right?” The boy stated quietly as he stopped in front of Spock, holding out if prize for inspection to Spock who had unconsciously begun to lean forward at the boy’s approach.

“Indeed.” Spock murmured thoughtlessly, rapt on the little, rapidly moving proboscis of the butterfly as it drank. Its wings fluttered slightly as Spock leaned in, but it did not flee, much too jealous of its prize.

The boy grinned in response, patiently standing there while Spock watched the insect feed and clutched the untouched candy in a fist to his chest.

Another butterfly suddenly dropped from the sky, alighting next to its kin and beginning to feed. They struggled for a bit, jockeying for position and hanging of the boys finger before they cautiously settled.

“It tickles.” The boy said, hushed and trying not to giggle before he adds, “You can do it too you know.”

“I am content to watch these specimens.” Spock says, not taking his eyes of the frantically darting mouthparts and trembling antennae.

The boy snorts and then looks up suddenly, his mouth hanging open in retort, and Spock hears a soft shutter click behind him.

“Sabby is gonna go ga-ga over this.” He hears Uncle Rob mutter from behind him, and Spock to his credit does not whip around, he does not even startle, though part of him on the inside snaps part in jerk reaction and part in self-chastisement over not having heard his great-uncle’s approach. Too enraptured by the insects to note his surroundings.

“Ga-ga?” Spock asks, slowly rising upright.

“It means she’ll think it’s cute and probably squee a little.”

“Squee?”

“High-pitched, highly-irritating, highly-disturbing noise that old-bats like your grandmother make when they see something cute.” Uncle Rob answers without missing a beat. “Who’s your friend runt?”

The boy smiles at Uncle Rob, answering before Spock can inform his great-uncle that this Human boy is not his friend, “I’m Jimmy.”

“Hi Jimmy, I’m Rob.” Uncle Rob says while he fiddles with his comm. Most likely sending the picture to his sister.

“Well I fixed the car, you two want to play with it?” He announces.

“Car?!” Jimmy asks, looking to Spock.

“Uncle Rob brought out a motorized toy car for me to busy myself with while we waited for Aunt Doris and her family to arrive.” Spock said, folding his hands behind his back.

“Can I play to?” Jimmy asks, looking over the flowerbed in front of him, already trying to pick out the best path to not crush the foliage under his feet.

Before Spock can answer Uncle Rob pipes up for him, “More the merrier.”

Jimmy grins and lifts one foot to traverse the flowerbed, a butterfly on his hand startling and fluttering away, when Uncle Rob stops him with a sharp noise.

“Ack! Nope, nope, nope. Freeze right there.” And Jimmy does freeze, mid step and balancing upon one leg at Uncle Rob’s frantic barking and hand waving.

He side steps Spock with a grumble. “Sabby will skin you and me if you bruise one of those damn flowers.” He mutters and reaches out towards Jimmy over the bed.

“C’mere, unless you want to walk all the way around.” He says and Jimmy reaches out as well with a “Kay”, the lingering butterfly fleeing his sticky hand.

Uncle Rob manages to grab him by his axillae and heave him up with a grunt, swinging him up and over the bed and depositing him on the lawn.

“Why did you have to touch my arm? I’m sticky now.” Uncle Rob grumbles, poking the soiled patch of skin with his finger and watching it stick.

Jimmy shrugs and turns to Spock with a smirk. “What kind of car is it?” He asked the Vulcan.

“I am unsure.” Spock says, looking to Uncle Rob.

“It’s some kind of all terrain bastardization of a dune-buggy. It’s fast though.” Uncle Rob says, scratching his stubble.

“We should build a ramp.” Jimmy announces with a manic gleam in his eyes.

The next two hours and seventeen Terran minutes Spock are spent in the company of Uncle Rob and Jimmy controlling the actions of a little mechanical car in an attempt to, or at that’s how it appeared to Spock, break it.

It was slammed, rammed, rolled, kicked, pounded and thoroughly abused by all parties. Crashing into the side of the house once due to a miscommunication about which direction the ramp would be facing and an underestimation of the little car’s maximum speed.

Jimmy enjoyed it, bouncing about Spock every time the young Vulcan was in control of the toy and encouraging him to push the toy well past its limits or even was was physically possible. And each time Jimmy possessed the controller he would get a look of rapt concentration as he forced the toy into recklessly sharp turns and over the “obstacles” Uncle Rob had dragged from the shed.

Broken watering cans and coiled hoses for weaving, various buckets and garden implements to crash through or run over, and one garish lawn ornament that he identified as a “gnome” for “flare”. Jimmy positioned it in front of the scrap wood and bucket ramp so he could hit it exactly in its smiling face, with Spock’s help of course calculating the needed distance that Jimmy would most likely be able to strike it.

Spock found Jimmy’s enthusiasm every time he toppled the gnome a little macabre, never one to condone unnecessary violence, but he did admit the ornament’s expression was, slightly, “creepy” as Jimmy had put it.

Uncle Rob had excused himself from the activity and sat off to the side on one of the patio’s padded benches, having only taken control once to demonstrate its operation. He was “supervising” as he called it, while he snoozed in the sunlight.

Jimmy apparently liked Spock’s name, or was amused by it. It could be difficult to discern as the different expressions held such similar graces on the young boy’s face.

As the cheeky, wicked grin he would sport when using the car to chase squirrels who were brave enough to enter the yard was the same he used when Spock would execute a perfect jump over the gnome, as the young Vulcan refused to strike it even though it was creepy.

And that was the grin Jimmy used when Spock gave his name, having never proper introduced himself in the first place, a grievous breach in Human etiquette.

That grin had quickly melted into a frustrated frown when Spock had proclaimed Jimmy would not be able to pronounce his last.

“I bet you can’t pronounce my middle name then.” Jimmy countered. Pointing his thumb to his chest arrogantly.

“Vulcans do not gamble.” Spock answered levelly, watching as Jimmy spun out and smashed the little toy car into the tree.

Jimmy snorted, partially at the controls and partially at Spock. “Well I _challenge_ you to pronounce it then.”

“I accept your challenge.”

“My name is James Tiberius Kirk.” Though he said Tiberius as quickly and as quietly as honor would allow.

“Tiberius.” Spock intoned. “The name of second Emperor of the Roman Empire, and stepson of Augustus. The name I believe means “of the Tiber”. The Tiber is a historically, and culturally, important river that runs through Rome.”

Jimmy glared at him, kicked Spock’s leg lightly, not enough to bruise a Vulcan but might of gleaned an “Ow!” from a Human child, and then proceed to pout.

“I believe you are being what is known as a “sore loser”.” Spock shifted lightly on his feet, digging his heel into the ground to help the relieve the dull ache spreading through his leg bones. Jimmy was stronger than he looked. “There was no reason to kick me.”

“Well you're a geek.”

“That is not a valid reason to kick me, or insult me.”

Jimmy just huffed, giving sideways glances to the Vulcan boy as he pretended to focus on the controls. Spinning the car about and causing blades of grass to kick up in its wake he attempted to “drift”. Uncle Rob would yell at him for that if he spotted that as he had warned the two boys about tearing up the yard too much, but Jimmy was sulking and did not seem to care.

Spock did care, he would not willingly tear up, or allow anyone to tear up, his grandmother’s manicured yard.

“Jimmy, please cease what you are doing, you are tearing up the grass.”

Jimmy released the analog sticks, letting them settle as the car rolled, then stopped, idling. He made a menagerie of pained faces, then sighed as his hung his head in defeat.

“M’sorry.” He whispered.

“You have done many things worth apologizing for, are you referring to a singular event or the entirety of your disagreeable actions?” Spock inquired.

Jimmy glared a hateful, stone melting, murderous glare. But relented, shaking his head slowly.

“You , sir, are a jerk. But I’m sorry for all of it. Save that last jerk, you deserved it.” He stated smartly.

“Hardly.” Spock huffed. “But your apology is unnecessary, I was not offended.”

Jimmy smiled a little, attempting to bump Spock with his hip and when Spock side stepped the

action he laughed and attempted to do it again. Jimmy was strange.

Jimmy was also undeniably, insatiably, unappeasably, unbridledly curious.

He asked questions constantly, about anything and everything Vulcan. Though he was quick to dismiss some cultural and philosophical notions in a close minded fashion of Terran self righteousness and humor —and then enjoyed interrupting the answer to one question with another— but he was, for the most part, genuinely excited to learn.

He would always drift into the violent, the exciting, and should Spock’s answers about his homeworld not be thrilling enough for Jimmy’s tastes, Jimmy would pout.

Sehlats, however, did not make Jimmy pout.

“Are they really that big?” Jimmy asked, leaning over Spock’s shoulder to gaze down at the controls in the Vulcan’s hands.

“Wild sehlats are larger than their domesticated counterparts. The domestic variety averages at 1.2 meters at the shoulder, with some variation between breeds, while most wild species are over 1.8 meters.” Spock explained.

“That’s _biigggg_.” Jimmy murmured with reverence.

“Indeed.” Spock concurred. Sehlats were among the largest living animals on Vulcan, and were the largest predatory, mammalian species by far.

“And their fangs are half a foot long?”

“It varies, but most domestic breeds have fangs of that length.”

“Aw, I want one.” Jimmy whined.

“I believe importing sehlats to Earth for the purpose of keeping them as pets is illegal.” Spock added.

“That sucks.” And Spock could feel Jimmy’s pouting even if he did not see it.

Spock can make no comment, for how it exactly creates a partial vacuum he does not know, but when I-Chaya was still living the ban had caused some disquiet in his household.

Mostly at the expense of the sehlat’s mental welfare at possibly being separated from the family for long periods of time, as he had not taken his father’s long absences well in the past even before Spock had been conceived; prone to meeting separation with depression and weight gain.

Jimmy stood on his toes behind Spock, the top of his head just clearing the Vulcan’s, humming and most likely thinking up another question while he watched Spock execute a perfect figure eight between an aluminium bucket and a garden trowel shoved into the dirt.

Then, even over the rumbling of the toy’s little motor, the calls of birds, Jimmy’s incessant humming in his ear and Uncle Rob’s faint, whistling snores, Spock heard the patio door quietly slide open.

Uncle Rob himself only stirred at the sound of small, quick feet approaching but was not fast enough to ward of assault as a small, squealing torpedo hurled itself into his torso.

He “Omphf”’d at the assault, his communicator, which had be lying on his stomach while he napped, flying and landing with a clatter on the patio stones, as he floundered for a moment under his attacker.

“Unkie Robbie! Robbie! Unkie!” The squirming creature chanted, giggling and routing its way into the old man’s chest.

“Well, well now. If it isn’t my favorite runtlett!” Uncle Rob heaved, righting himself and gathering the ball of flailing limbs into his arms.

The creature, most likely a small boy, had bright, copper colored hair that wound itself into dense waves.

“I’m not a runtlett!” The boy wailed, squirming and fighting against Uncle Rob who now held the small boy pinned to his chest.

“Yer’ smaller than a runt so yer’ a runtlett, runtlett.” Uncle Rob countered, dodging a blow to the chin as the boy’s head swung about in his struggle for freedom.

“Am not!” The boy insisted and began pummeling Uncle Rob’s chest with his free arm’s tiny fist.

Uncle Rob grunted, then promptly manhandled the squirming, squealing child into and upside down position, his shoulders propped to Uncle Rob’s knees and the boy’s legs legs failing over his shoulder.

The boy’s long, orange hair was a mess, his dusky green eyes blazing with near fury and his heavily freckled face scrunched with effort as he tried to break free.

“Lemme’ go!” The boy growled out, the beginnings of a whine in his small voice, and then abruptly stilled his efforts when his eyes landed Spock.

“That’s your cousin, runtlett.” Uncle Rob murmured once he noticed the cause of the boy’s stillness, losing his infliction and looking pointedly at Spock.

The boy paused, considering his half-Vulcan cousin for a moment as Uncle Rob gingerly relaxed his grip and allow the boy to slowly back backflip unto his feet. As soon as he feet were secure on solid earth he pushed away from Uncle Rob and marched over to Jimmy and Spock.

His little, baby fat laden face was quite unreadable, the only blemish a slight was a pondering furrow in his unkempt and sparse brows. He was most likely Jonathan, the other Jimmy, as Lester was 1.68 Terran years older than Spock and this boy appeared quite younger.

He stopped in front of the two boys and crossed his small, skinny arms over his chest, holding the sides of his limbs loosely in chubby fingers.

“What’re you doin’?” He asked.

Jimmy, the blond one, stood at Spock shoulder, cautiously looking over the other Jimmy and glancing towards Spock. Offering some sort of encouragement with his gaze.

However, Spock had no idea what Jimmy or he should be doing at this moment either. But answering seemed like a logical first step.

“I am—” Spock started but was abruptly caught off by the other Jimmy snatching the controller from his hands.

“That’s mine you weirdo! You can’t play with it!” The other Jimmy spat, clutching the controller to his chest protectively. The little motorized car sat spinning in what the first Jimmy had called a “doughnut” as the controls were mashed.

Spock felt the light press of Jimmy’s, the first Jimmy’s, fingers on the back of his arm. The Human in question radiated disapproval at the other, smaller, Human’s actions and Spock covertly pulled away from the touch.

“I—” Spock started before he was cut off by another sharp, “Mine!”

Uncle Rob had gotten to his feet, scowling.

“Jimmy you quit that nonsense right frickin’ now.” He warned lowly. “I’m going to tell your mother if you don’t—”

It appeared that little cousin Jimmy was like most four and three quarters year old’s in that he enjoyed pushing his boundaries because he then cut Uncle Rob off with a loud, whiny, declaration of; “It’s miiiinnnnneee!”  

Accompanied by foot petulant stamping.

Aunt Doris’s ears, however, were well tuned to the whines of her children, and she sauntered out onto the patio to aplomb from where she must have been lingering in the kitchen.

“Jonathan Patrick Grayson.” Was all the 157.2 centimeter woman with dark, tight curls —and very expansive bosom, which made her appear slightly top heavy given her relative petiteness— really needed to say. Her lips pursed in a very admonishing frown.

“You will apologize right now to Spock and give back the controller.”

Uncle Rob did well to back away from the great bear this small woman that transformed into, exchanging a “be very, very still” look with Spock and, the first, Jimmy.

The little boy looked at his mother, visibly shrinking but still holding defiantly to the controller. Obviously, and futilely, believing he could somehow win this fight.

“It’s mine.” He murmured quietly, expertly avoiding eye contact.

Aunt Doris apparently did not suffer fools, so with a curt “Annnnd we’re done.” she marched up to her child and scooped his now squalling form under her arm as if he were a sack of plomeeks. Prying the controller from his clawing fingers.

“We meet on the worst of terms then don’t we Spock?” She smiled apologetically and offered the controller, which Spock took back gingerly. “I’m so sorry about Jimmy, he is going through a bad phase.” She explained.

She doesn't even try to attempt the ta’al with a squirming, and now grossly sobbing —mucus dribbling and all— child under her arm.

“It’s good to finally meet you Spock.” She nodded in his direction, which Spock returned, but before he could offer a similar triviality she continued;

“Now I have to go take this little monster,” And raised the burden laden arm slightly. “And find a nice quiet corner for him to calm down in. Proper introductions can wait yes?”

“That would be most prudent.” Spock said. And Aunt Doris chuckled lightly for Spock before she turned to figures lurking in the doorway.

“Lester come and say hi and salvage our reputation.” She called cheerfully.

Lester, a thick boy with dusky brown hair the nearly reached his shoulders, was leaning on the doorframe, watching the scene impassively.

Aunt Doris’s husband, Steven, stood behind him, looking mildly fearful. Mother and Grandmother Sabrina were also there, pushing their way to the front and both looking slightly worried.

Lester shrugged at his mother’s order but began to approach as Aunt Doris moved away to convene with her husband, who was apparently supposed to have been watching the tantrum throwing toddler under her arm. As they passed each other Spock heard a murmur of “ _best behavior_ ” from mother to child.

Mother and Grandmother Sabrina also clustered together, Aunt Doris apologizing to his sister for her son’s behavior and making Uncle Steven apologize as well. Though he did so quite sourly.

“Hey.” Lester greeted Spock and Jimmy, accompanied by a quick hand raise.

“Hello cousin, it is gratifying to meet you.” Spock said and offering the ta’al, which Lester glanced at it but made no effort to reciprocate. Trying to push his obedience as much as his sibling’s.

“You talk weird.” He stated.

“I am merely—” Spock was cut off by Jimmy, the first Jimmy, as he placed his hand on Spock forearm protectively.

“Jerk.” Jimmy snapped.

Lester snorted at him, offering an eyeroll as well. “Whatever, kid.” He said, dismissing Jimmy before turning to Spock. “Look, I’m sorry about my brother. He’s a little shithead sometimes.”

“I was not offended,” Spock lightly dipped his head to his cousin and then attempted to shrug his limb from Jimmy’s grasp. “Jimmy release my arm. I do not wish to be touched.”

Jimmy gave him an odd, mildly hurt, look, but let go. More focused on glaring at Lester.

“You're a kid too you know.” Jimmy spat at him.

“Yeah, well, I’m obviously older and bigger than you. So, you know, shut up.” Lester said matter-of-factually.

Jimmy clenched his fists, “You wanna fight douchebag?!”

“Jimmy, please stop. I do not—”

“I don’t fight pipsqueaks.” Lester spat back, Spock was just tired of being cut off at this point.

“I might be a pipsqueak but atleast I’m not a dickwad!” Jimmy announced, rather loudly. Thankfully most of the adults were too focused on dealing with the other, currently screaming, Jimmy to pay much attention to the other children.

“Kroykah!” Spock snapped at both parties, a little louder than he intended but it succeeded in startling, therefore stopping, Jimmy and earning a head tilt from Lester.

“That mean anything interesting in Vulcan?” Lester asked after a beat, looking genuinely curious.

Spock wanted to sigh, but he wouldn’t, for he had slipped into his native tongue in the heat of the moment. Finding Terran English a little ill-fitting.

“It means; stop.” Spock explained, lightly fingering the controller still in his hands.

“How do you say “shut up” in Vulcan-nese?” Lester asked and he looked pointedly at Jimmy, who gave a nasty scowl in return.

“The direct translation of the phrase from English would not have the same connotations.” Spock sent Jimmy a warning look as he sensed the boy bristle at the comment. Most likely preparing a snappy comeback.

Lester was quite a bit bigger than Jimmy, though Spock was sure he could defend Jimmy should Lester attack him, he doubted it would be right for him to assist him if Jimmy attacked Lester. Lester was Spock’s cousin after all, Jimmy was a stranger. And Jimmy seemed eager to start a fight, as ill mannered as Lester himself might be.

“Too bad.” Lester sighed. He looked over his shoulder, watching the adults file back inside. All except Uncle Rob, who stopped at the doorway, waiting for them with the toy car in hand but not urgent enough to call them in. Just a quiet hint.

“I’m going back inside.” Lester said, then turned and marched off without another word. Spock heard the “freaks” muttered under his cousin’s breath but he hoped Jimmy didn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Came a whisper from beside him after a moments pause. Jimmy was looking at the ground, face still flushed with unnecessary anger and fists clenched.

What Jimmy had done was not fine, or okay or alright or any of the vague English terms of adequacy Terrans were so fond of. He had nearly started a fight with Lester and ruined Spock’s first impression.

“You are not.” Spock stated.

Jimmy jerked up, his eyes flashing dangerously, mouth already opened for a retort.

“You deliberately escalated the situation. You decided you did not like Lester and choose to provoke him.” Spock asserted.

“He was being a jerk!” Jimmy objected.

“You were the one who rose to his bait, a bait not even directed at you.” Spock was not looking at Jimmy, his eyes focused on the doorway Lester had disappeared into.

“I was trying to help you!”

“You only succeeded in doing the opposite. I did not need your help. There is no offense where none is _taken_ , Jimmy.” Spock declared, citing one of Surak’s more notable sayings. “I am _Vulcan_ , my feelings were not hurt by Lester’s trivial jab.”

The fire in Jimmy’s eyes faded, he looked away but once more his mouth opened to defend himself. “I didn't know that…”

“You could have extrapolated it from the information I had already provided you. You have insulted me— and my culture, several times and I never took offense.”

“I never meant it. He meant it!”

“I cannot see the difference.”

Jimmy tensed, there appeared to be a wetness gathering in his eyes and he looked like he was about to start another round of name calling. But he did not, a flash of shallow realization rolled across his features and he seemed to entirely diminish; which Spock would of thought impossible till he had witnessed it himself.

“I’m sorry.” Jimmy said, again, quietly. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“I am wanted inside.” Spock merely stated, whether he believed Jimmy this time or not irrelevant, turning to face the boy and raising the ta’al. “Goodbye, James Kirk.”

Jimmy looked up at him, obviously hurt and seeking a resolution Spock could not give, so, after glancing at his fingers to make sure it was correct, returned the gesture in a respectable manner. He did not tuck his thumb as many Human’s did and that was admirable.  

“Bye, Spock.” He said, still betraying anger.

Spock turned from the boy and began to cross the patio to the door.

“I had fun.” Came an accusation from behind him and Spock did not stop for he had nothing to add, his great-uncle was waiting.

Uncle Rob gave him a strange, questioning look which Spock had no answer for and looked up at Jimmy with a confused look when Spock joined him.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

“There is no physical way for me to know if “everything” is “okay”, Uncle Rob. It is a statistical improbably for everything in the known and unknown universe to be “okay” at any given time.” Uncle Rob wasn't voiced in Vulcan evasion tactics yet, and Spock would exploit that without shame for now.

Uncle Rob snorted, amused. “Come on, I've got ice cream in the freezer to sooth everyone’s nerves and your aunt wants a hug.”

“I do not want to be hugged.” Spock stated, brow furrowing.

“Best suck it up then, no one can stop a signature bone-crushing Doris hug.” Uncle Rob said with a sigh.

Spock made note to avoid his aunt, or keep Mother close, if he could not convince her of the necessity of limited contact and started to cross the threshold.

“I’ll see you later Spock!” Came a shout from behind him.

Spock froze, then turned. Jimmy was at the edge of the lawn, waving, a very determined look on his face. His statement not intended farewell but a question, a challenge.

Today had been strange; mostly for the sake of one James Tiberius Kirk, who Spock had played and talked about sehlats with for nearly three Terran hours. And Spock had fond those hours… Acceptable, for the most part.

So Spock, who knew better than to accept for the boy was obviously too volatile to associate with, tentatively waved back and gave a nod to the affirmative.

Jimmy grinned, his face bright as it should be, before turning and taking off at a sprint down the road. Leaving Spock to wonder why he agreed to such an ill advised association.

-

Spock sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped in his lap; he did not swing his legs.

There were still the sounds of chaos coming from below him; the sounds of small feet thundering about while the parents of those feet set to the insurmountable task of preparing them for bed and voices carrying nonsense through the ceiling, through the floor as they somehow managed some trivial sort of communication through all the excess trimmings.

The sounds of a Human family Spock supposed... His family.

Aunt Doris was a _friendly_ woman. She seemed to enjoy children and fawned over him as more than she ever did when he was small and sat in his mother’s lap while she chattered and cooed from sixteen light years away on a screen.

And she had managed to hug him. Through all his logical arguments, which she had actually agreed with, and the soft, maternally-protective warnings Mother had given, she had managed to hug him. Pulling a thick throw from off the livingroom couch, wrapping it snugly about him and then lifting him up in a hug that popped a vertebrae in his back.

“Cherry on top!” She sing-songed and pecked a kiss on the top of his head, that he felt rather than saw for he was partially crushed into her breast and partially blindfolded by the throw.

It was quick, relatively painless with the added buffer, and with Aunt Doris’s husband and Uncle Rob being the only witnesses it went unreported to Mother. Uncle Rob had looked envious as Spock was abruptly released back to solid ground, he had even asked for a hug too but Mother came in with a suspicious glint in her eye before Spock could even refuse.

Mother had fussed about Spock when she spotted him with the throw still hanging on his shoulders, thinking him cold, and Spock’s would be huggers scattered like aylak at the cry of a le-matya.

Uncle Steven had remained, flopping into a chair and taking on a mask of innocent boredom, though Spock had little to fear as far as hugs went from that man as far as he could tell. He was quite, generally polite but obviously wanted to be somewhere else. His primary function in this gathering was to watch Jimmy and make sure he did not stick his finger into an electrical socket out of pure spite.

They had “sandwiches” for lunch, Jimmy had laughed at Spock for eating his hummus, tomato, cucumber and lettuce sandwich with a knife and fork. Lester did not, even elbowing his brother for the taunting, but looked secretly amused. Lester had holding his commwatch in a manner that made Spock believe he was trying to take a video, discreetly, for some reason.

Jimmy had been forced apologize to Spock lamely for the second time that day due to that short laugh.

His first apology came from the toy car incident. Which, after he spent 13.45 minutes wailing on a chair in Grandfather Thomas’s (Spock thought it illogical that the room was still referred to as Thomas’s even though the man was long deceased, but he did not mention it aloud.) office, he reluctantly apologized for his behavior. He spent most of the stunted apology attempting to stare a hole into the middle of Spock’s forehead because he had been told not to look at the ground while he apologized.

Spock accepted his apology without fanfare and thought that to be the end of it. However, Jimmy seemed to be holding a grudge against him as he would go out of his way to taunt and pester the young Vulcan. As well as any four year old can without getting caught.

Spock’s head was usually a target for small objects (Small toys, pebbles, acorns, once a wet wad of paper.) when the eyes of the adults were trained elsewhere, thankfully nothing had come from the boy’s nose so far and most of the general problem was fixed by remaining by the presence of any adult besides Uncle Steven.

The man apparently found little problem with Jimmy “antics” as long as they were not loud or excessively destructive.

Jimmy had also attempted to scare him once, jumping out from a bedroom doorway as Spock had come down the hall. Spock had heard the boy giggling long before he passed the doorway, but was a little surprised when the boy jumped out and screamed in an attempt to startle him. Spock was confused by the action, but not scared, and both parties merely stood staring at eachother for a moment before Jimmy frowned, kicked Spock in the shin and stomped off down the hall. Mumbling insults.

Jimmy did love to call him a “weirdo”, and a “freak”, and what ever a “doo-doo head” might be. Directing the insulting, though unoriginal, comments at Spock whenever he got the opportunity.

For a four year old he was relatively stealthy about it, most likely the product of having Aunt Doris for a mother as she seemed to be able to sense even the thoughts of mischief. Spock was left to wonder about the illogical possibility that she made have a telepathic alien species in her ancestry for the sheer precise nature of her ability.

Uncle Rob claimed she had an extra eye on the back of her head. Spock himself knew of no humanoid species with such an ocular configuration.

All in all, it was manageable compared to what he was used to.

Jimmy was only four after all and could be easily avoided, ignored or distracted so Spock saw little need to inform anyone in charge of his behavior. The adults were busy planning for the week and reconnecting with Mother. Jimmy would quickly get bored eventually when he continued to receive no response.

There was a more pressing issue that Spock’s PADD had gone missing and he had reason to suspect Jimmy was behind its sudden absence. He would ask Lester about it in the morning as the boy seemed quite neutral to Spock’s presence; despite the efforts of one James Kirk to sour the boy’s opinion of him. Not stopping or condoning his brother’s behavior but occasionally distracting Jimmy when he decided the boy was overdoing it.

If Lester could not get Jimmy to return it—and it would be a battle as the boy was quite illogical, even for a four year old—Spock would be forced to inform someone. But that was only speculation at this point.

Dinner, at least, had been uneventful, the only thing noteworthy being that Spock discovered the  pension he had for Terran eggplants he theorized he had last night was quite true, and in the chaos following desert (Jimmy had shoved a piece of fruit up his nose and gotten it stuck.) Spock had been able to sneak away unbothered. Not unnoticed of course, but Mother had only smiled lamely when he ducked out of the living room as she was well aware the last few hours had been trying and let him go.

So now he sat on his bed, listening. He should be mediating of course, but he was not. But he should and that was enough for him to pushing himself to his feet.

He stopped, brows coming together in confusion, and touched his pant’s pocket. He had left something there. Reaching in he found the source of the irritation and pulled out the candy pebble, still neatly wrapped if its twisted ends a bit distorted from being cramped in his pocket.

He stared at for a few moments, turning it gently in his fingers and listening to the plastic wrapper crinkle gently. He pinched the ends between thumb and index and began to pull; it opened like a flower, paper blooming and revealing a gleaming red jewel inside.

He stared at the tiny candy in that now sat in his palm for a moment, examining the rough ovoid shape. It was a ruby red in color, the warm light reflecting off every internal imperfection leaving dark and light fragments in its center.

He considered, then debated and finally, tentatively, put the candy in his mouth.

The first thing he tasted was sweetness, a purely dry, sugary sweetness that was borderline vile. Then, as he rolled the candy in his mouth, listening to the sharp clicks it made against his teeth and the rough scrapes against the roof of his mouth, he tasted something.

It was not strawberry, at least not strawberry as he knew it; Mother had said those he tried so long ago had been subpar so his knowledge was limited. But it was fruity, warm; spreading out on the tongue like melted butter but light and sparkling all the same.

He sucked, and turned, and pushed the candy into his cheeks as Jimmy, the Jimmy who had given him the candy, had done.

He sat back down, hands in his lap and no swinging of legs to be found, and quietly waited for the candy to dissolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaa, this was long wasn't it? I have no self control... None. Did we learn allot of scientific terms today though kiddies? I hope your Googles were prepared for the pounding they received.
> 
> On the subject of Vulcan no having butterflies, I theorize that they don't or that the a sufficiently different from Terran butterflies that they are unrecognizable. The Vulcan word (According to the VLD) for butterfly is mathra, which directly translates to disc or saucer. My guess is they don't have butterflies themselves and that is just a name from comparison because I really can't think of how an animal translates into the object like that but I can see of how the object translates into the animal. Ergo, discs/saucers came first. Yup yup.
> 
>  **Tal-kam** : dear/term of endearment  
>  **Aylak** : a small, scavenging reptile/a le-mayta's main prey source  
>  **Sehlat/Nor-sehlat** : a large bear like animal that is often domesticated/a wild sehlat  
>  **Kroykah/Kroikah** : stop immediately/forceful way to say stop/vulcan version of "sit the fuck down and listen before I smack a bitch, i'm so tired of yer shit"  
>  **Le-matya** : highly poisonous omnivore/if you see one RUN BITCH/i think of them as grey-green diamond patterned synapsids


End file.
